


The Man with no Scent

by Roughnight



Series: The Prince and the Pauper [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:54:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roughnight/pseuds/Roughnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.</p><p>John Watson, an omega on the run, stumbles upon Sherlock Holmes in a land unfamiliar to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man With No Scent

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally had the time to sort the chapters. Had the mistake of originally posting them as Parts when they rightfully are pieces of a single multi-chap fic. For those who have suggested that I sort this out, I give you all my sincere thanks. My apologies also for the confusion. Initially posted the chapters as Parts coz I had traitorously planned to only post Chapter 1 and not continue the fic. That was a long time ago. I send my gratitude for your encouragements and suggestions.^^

_Lie low. Build up a new life._

 

 

John Watson was fully aware where his priorities lie. This thing in front of him, it really wasn’t his problem. No one had seen him yet. He can turn on his back and plainly walk away from the unfortunate circumstance that had come on his way, or rather, the one he’d accidentally treaded his way into. He knew he should’ve taken the left route. All it took was one bloody decision of probing through the right path and he may as well have removed his cloak and shown his face to the pursuing mass… except that there were no pursuers in sight. There haven’t been for some weeks. That has been his plan after all. Escape from his country into a neighboring one and all them sodding lot loses their right over him. He hasn’t really gone far but he’d finally crossed the borders. Leagues were far enough if one deigned to cross them by feet alone. There definitely was risk involved should he meddle in this dirty business in front of him but perhaps it wouldn’t be enough to jeopardize all that he’d painstakingly sacrificed and suffered for. Taking a lungful of breath, his heart galloping excitedly at the rush of adrenaline, he raised his eyes and drank in the sight in front of him.

  

 _Wolves_. He’d smelled them the soonest that he’d crossed the intersection and faced the sight of four men encircling each other—of three men exchanging blows with a lone adversary. All of them were alphas and John thought it was reason enough to have held his attention so strongly only in the brief second that it took for him to have been made aware of their presence. He can’t help his biology after all. The fight was hardly fair, what with three on one even when the one man that should’ve had the handicap was holding himself fairly well considering the disadvantage of number on him. The man who was being ganged up _seemed_ to be the weakest and seemed to be the one others could just as easily subdued—except that he wasn’t. He was slender and tall in built compared to the three men who all had bulks of muscles beefed into them. The tall man was experienced in his own style and was enviously agile and swift. He was quick to duck from blows that would’ve subjugated him and he could experiencedly deliver his own set of jabs and kicks. In John’s eyes, the man seemed to be dancing to the rhythm of the other men’s attacks, as if he were predicting how they’ll operate. For all the tall man’s pale complexion and lithe body, he was unquestionably still an alpha. You could see it in his wild eyes that bespoke intelligence and feral. No matter the tall man’s skill though, three was still a number that could play at your detriment especially when two of them had just started to draw knives and the other one looked to be sporting the unmistakable bulge of a gun. One of the burly men had managed to slash at the tall man’s arm which the latter used to defend his torso and John was quick to throw caution to the wind as he pulled the tranquilizer gun clipped at the waistline of his jeans. Setting his burlap on the ground, he steadied his breath as he aimed at one of the men and fired. 

 

The fired dart cut through the air, the hiss silent and sharp. That was the advantage John loved the most of possessing tranq guns over the real ones. They hardly make a sound. There was no danger of attracting more attention than necessary. No one was bound to alert authorities so he’d get hooked up in a melodrama of events that otherwise could force him to reveal whatever shits he’d wanted to bury and keep.

  

 Three pairs of eyes turned on him as the man John shot hit the ground as silent as a grave. Of the three, John met the silver ones for the briefest of second before the latter used the distraction to his advantage. The tall man quickly decked the other man somewhere at the back of his neck, the very spot John intimately knew could cause the nerve endings to snap crazy signals for the brain to let go of consciousness. Then the second man fell and the two were left on their own devices. 

 

This was a fair fight now, at least on some level, ignoring that the other man still had a knife on him and the tall man had a bleeding gash on his arm. John should’ve really slipped away at this point. This wouldn’t be on his conscience now. There wasn’t any logical reason that he ought to see how the fight would end. He shouldn’t even want to see it, shouldn’t be somehow internally siding up to the tall man, but he did. There were consequences. Should the bulky man win, John would have to subdue him personally as the other was bound to harbor a ground for revenge and retribution at him. He was an interloper in the fight between alphas in a land where he clearly did not belong to. Should the tall man win, there was a remote possibility that he was actually a criminal and may consider John a casualty despite somehow helping him. The odds were really against him and he should’ve just walked away. He didn’t. He watched as the tall man exchanged blows with the bigger man and saw how the former had successfully overcome the latter. The clang of the metal knife against the cobbled stone echoed and not sooner had the body touched the ground had the tall man whipped around to look John in the eyes.

  

John had the strong desire to bolt up and run. Outrunning an alpha wouldn’t have posed a problem when he’s a wolf himself and a soldier at that, regardless of his gender. No. The problem would be exposing his back to a foreign alpha who has a possibility to be carrying a gun or two stuffed somewhere on his impressive coat. John watched skeptically as the alpha swept his eyes all over him before engaging his eyes in a silent stare, holding him in place. John, in turn, took his time committing the man to his memory. He was tall and slender, his eyes were of silver steel, his cheekbones were shapr and flushed against his alabaster skin, his hair was wild with curls and he was wearing a black elegant coat and a pair of black trousers and silken buttoned up shirt.  John knows a man of standing when he sees one, at least, he can smell money where they ought to be smoked out. This man clearly had taste for clothes of luxury and he was in an alley where he clearly didn’t belong to getting ganged up by thugs. The alpha stopped when he was five steps from him and John suppressed the shiver that ran up his spine. He could feel his own hackles raised and feel the wolf in him growling in apprehension.

  

“Where in Scowall?” The alpha asked, his voice was deep and suave and deceptively casual. The mention of his country caught John in violent surprise. His knees buckled in his mad desire to run and only the close proximity of the other man had kept him checked in place. His mind leapt at the remote possibility that this alpha could be after him as absurd as that could sound. His pursuers couldn’t have found him this soon without John having scented the pursuit. But how could he know?

  

“Excuse me?” John gritted out.

  

The alpha pursed his lips in a thin line and John recognized the flash of annoyance in his eyes. “Even without seeing your clothes, the cloak’s a tell tale sign of where you’re from. That long travel from the country and you’re only bringing a burlap also means you’re a stow away. You’re running from someone, possibly a group of people _. Literally_. Your boots are worse for wear they’re almost permanently painted in mud, disgustingly so, if I may add. It hasn’t rained in this place for a while which means all the dry dirt around you has accumulated and clung from weeks, possibly months of travelling on foot. You growled unconsciously when I mentioned the country which only reinforced my hypothesis. You’re on the run or in hiding now that you’ve crossed the boarders and is already a long way from it. So, I’ll ask again, were from Scowall?” 

 

John’s mouth was dropped open in wonder by the time the alpha finished his rant. He imagined he was also giddy from the torrent of information that should’ve been obvious but truly wasn’t. “The cloak,” He croaked, then cleared his throat in annoyance for how weak and fazed it sounded, “the cloak told you were I was from? Granted that you’re right of course.” He added warily. 

 

The alpha snorted. “Please, as if anyone wears cloak these days. You’re practically announcing you’re in hiding wearing that _thing_ around.”

  

John’s hand burned from an impulse to suddenly shuck the cloak off but resisted. “How?”

  

The alpha’s eyes were suddenly lit up as they intensely held John’s blue ones. “Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective.”

  

“You’re a detective?” 

 

“ _Consulting_ detective.” The alpha reiterated as if the added word ought to have made sense to John, as f it explained everything.  “Indeed, the cloak has been obvious but I’m a wolf and I can smell the scent of distanced woods and foreign soil. You’re practically a walking geography. But you already know that, don’t you, that I’m a wolf and an alpha at that.” 

 

The alpha, Holmes, had taken a couple of steps closer. John felt his heart quicken and his blood rush around his limbs. He was already prepared for a confrontation or for a flight that could very well save his ass. This alpha was dangerously being clever and John just wasn’t sure he could trust that all the things Holmes mentioned weren’t results of some authority in pursuit telling him about John. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  

“Oh, you do.” The alpha took a step closer. “I wasn’t sure at first but the first thing you did upon reaching this alley was sniff. You practically growl when in distress and while your grip on that tranq gun tightens, you other hand claws and rakes at air.” Another step closer. “The only mystery here is your _gender_.”

  

John held his breath as he vulnerably held the alpha’s scrutinizing gaze. He could feel the faint brush of air from the other man’s mouth and up this close, John was enveloped with the heady, tantalizing scent of the alpha pulling him in, making him want to rub himself against the man. While he was a soldier of self control, John has never met an alpha his entire life with scent as sinfully exotic as this man has. He wanted to raise his hand and pull the damn trigger of his gun. There was a reason why alphas are considered the highest in the hierarchy even when John just wanted to say fuck it all. John’s mind turned blank as this man, Holmes, unceremoniously dipped his head low and sniffed somewhere at the area of John’s neck.

  

 “I can’t smell you.” The alpha whispered in John’s ear, his baritone voice smooth and deep.

  

And then, just as fast as it happened, Holmes stepped back and John realized he hasn’t taken a breath. His hands felt cold and sweaty but they were as still as rocks, his hold on the weapon just as steady.

  

“That’s the reason those idiotic scums didn’t notice you. You don’t carry a scent. You’ve hidden it, possibly with pills and chemicals, not permanently, though. That’s only fitting my theory that you’re a run away. Why else hide your scent. But you’re not an alpha.” Holmes stated smugly and confidently, his pale eyes snapping back at John. 

 

Taken aback, John raised a challenging eyebrow at the other man. He couldn’t really help himself. The man was a hurricane. He was a disaster slicing through air and sweeping through the dry ground. What was a mere man like John to do against such brilliance when catching up turns the gears inside his head wild?

  

“Oh please, an alpha wouldn’t have thrown a rat’s ass to a group of alpha’s in a squabble.” Holmes drawled as he rolled his eyes. His brows then arced contemplatively as he mulled over something. John wasn’t sure he wanted to hear or not. “An omega or a beta… _Oh!_ Oh, _of course!_ ”

  

John watched as the alpha’s eyes widened gleefully in realization, eyes that were manic in their intensity. His face considerably brightened as his stare zeroed in on John’s tranq gun before it flicked up to John’s face. “ _Of course!_ Why didn’t I think of that!” He slapped a palm against his forehead as he practically bounced on his feet. “You were a _soldier_ and a crack shot at that. You fired the gun to a group of people having a brawl and hit the man who’s been obviously sporting a firearm on his waist. You didn’t hide your scent so could out run your pursuers—that just happened to serve as a secondary purpose during the course of your _journey_. You hid your scent so could join the army and pretend to be normal— _dull!_ —because clearly omegas aren’t allowed in military service.”

  

John whipped his arm and fired the tranquilizer gun before he could think about it. The dart hit the alpha somewhere around his shoulder. It was the only place John deemed the coat to be thin enough for the needle to sink through flesh. He was breathing very fast as he pulled trigger and shot this man Holmes. He wasn’t really sure that this was a bad man but he already knew a lot about John than the latter would’ve liked. He can’t afford to be found out.

  

John caught the alpha in his arms as the tall man crumpled and fell to the cobbled ground. He was surprised to see that Holmes’s eyes were still open and conscious. A bit glazed but definitely conscious. John’s heart rattled inside his ribs. The tranquilizer suffused in the dart was enough to subdue wolves—even the older ones whose immunity were at their peak—and somehow, this alpha had managed to grabbed desperately onto his consciousness.

  

“Relax.” John found himself saying, coaxing even. “I… I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

 

 Holmes grunted. It came out weak but John thought he recognized the tone for annoyance. He gave a tentative smile at the alpha, his eyes crinkling in merriment were it was due.

  

“You already knew too much. But that thing that you did, it was… _amazing_.” The word came out rushed and almost breathless and John realized how he truly meant it. This clever man had such brilliance to be accounted for.

 

John watched as the alpha blinked a couple of times before finally surrendering to the grip of drug induced oblivion. He carefully laid the taller man on the ground and brushed some curls off his forehead. It was a temptation he could allow himself without prying eyes. It was simply biology. This man, this alpha, he was beautiful now that John could check him out without fear of being discovered. And his scent was truly tantalizing, it’s almost tangible in its potency. Shaking his head and reorganizing his priorities, John slowly stood up and fetched his burlap. He’d packed some medical supplies with him. It wouldn’t hurt to take the time to wrap a bandage onto the man’s bleeding arm. He carefully set his pack beside Holmes before going over the other alphas and checking them out. After making sure that the other two were alive, John methodically tied up their arms with a piece of their clothing he’d torn up using their knives. He then went over the other alpha that was carrying a gun. This one wouldn’t need to be tied up since the drug would make sure he was knocked out for several hours more; but John did take out the gun and removed its bullet clip and slipped it on his pocket. He’d throw it later.

  

When he was done wrapping a clean pressure dressing on Holmes’arm, John fished out for the alpha’s cellphone from the coat pockets. He didn’t really know where to call but he had to. God knows a wolf’s most vulnerable in its drug induced slumber. He can’t risk getting any alpha that can be traced back to him killed. Fuck it. He can’t afford to let something terrible happen to the man when he hadn’t don’t anything to John but find out all of his secrets. Shoving the thoughts away, John browsed the call registry from the alpha’s mobile. There was a series of missed calls traced back to someone named M. Holmes. John supposed it was the safest bet so he’d sent a simple anonymous text. He’d ventured he couldn’t afford to get his voice recorded and a text wouldn’t bring an damage. John was gravely wrong on that but he wouldn’t know it until much, much later. 

 

_[Am hurt. Pick me up at this place…]_

Having done all that he could do, John set off with the full intent of covering more distance from this place. He allowed himself one last glance at the slumbering alpha before retracing his path and choosing another route.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fic I have written a long time ago as I encountered a "beginning prompt" out of the blue. Came across it once again and was struck with the idea not to let it gather mold in my hard drive unfinished. I originally intended to post only the first chapter...
> 
>  
> 
> >Started posting the chapters in Parts at first but I've just recently managed and edited the chapters properly. I do apologize for some who may have had confusion. Begging for mercy, ma'am and sirs, ^^ and thank you for your suggestions to post the updates as Chapters (instead of Parts) as they rightfully should.


	2. The Man Who Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> Sherlock Holmes was an alpha on the hunt for the newest puzzle that landed on his hands in the form of a certain runaway omega from another land.
> 
> .

 

 

~*~

 

 

He was lucid and he was not. He was awake and he was dreaming. He had no choice but to succumb to the artificial slumber brought by that pesky little tranquilizer dart, had no choice in the matter but to allow his system for a  _momentary_  shutdown, but he didn’t remain hopelessly unconscious for a long time. He remembered clutching so desperately to the last sensations he had scavenged out of the haze. He felt the firm, bold caress of fingers against his forehead, brushing at his curls; felt the subtle sniff of the other man, scenting him; felt the brush of palm against his arm, patching up his skin; and he fervently hoped he had been more in control of his consciousness, behind closed eyelids, so he could’ve analyzed the calluses of those warm, gentle hands.

 

 

_“But that thing that you did, it was…amazing.”_

 

And while Sherlock grumbled in annoyance against the sedative infused in his bloodstream and glared in his valiant wrestle to keep his head above waters like a drowning man, he thought he’d have smiled at the omega’s words had his lips were not dreadfully numbed. They were music to his ears, a string of lullabies so gentle. As it was, he had no choice but to later surrender to oblivion when he finally heard the omega’s footsteps walking away from their alley, the sound against the cobbled stone receding ever so slowly but surely, but he submitted only because he knew he wouldn’t be enslaved by the drug for long. The omega had underestimated him, had not known of his body’s immunity to certain chemicals, had not been informed of his shady past… The tranquilizer would not have been enough for anything but to buy the silly, interesting wolf a little bit of time.

 

~*~*~

 

 

His eyes snapped open, instantaneously alert, the after effects of the drugs so meager he could will it aside. It was just as he predicted.  _Obvious_. He was able to immediately retain control of his faculties. What he hadn’t expected were the number of  _tamed_  wolves in their funny boring suits wandering around the site like programmed trolls, dragging the already  _bound_  puny criminals, picking up the gun, retracting out the tranquilizer darts, breathing the air, walking on Earth, talking, reporting, living, contaminating the scene… A growl rumbled from Sherlock’s chest as he quickly shot to his feet and strode towards the center of the narrow alley.

 

“ _Stop_! You’re contaminating everything!” He snarled to no one in particular, baring his human teeth as he whipped furiously around.

 

The alpha in him has managed to gather everyone’s attention to him, forcing them to heed his command and bow their heads even when they silently grimaced. It was simple biology he planned to use to his advantage as manipulatively and successfully as he could. They were too dull to actually attempt for subterfuge or whatever silly things their funny little minds can conceive to try to be smart around his orders. While it couldn’t fully appease him, he would’ve have been content by their submission enough to keep him back on track to what is most important which is to prowl around and trace the lingering marks of the curious omega. He’d have went about his business with his mood barely sullied had he not caught another alpha wolf’s scent and heard the distinct sound of leather heels against the stones echoing alternately with the consistent tap of metal tip knocking against the ground. He whipped around, his coat billowing in the air, and glared directly at another man just in time as the latter appeared from a corner. He was a man just as tall as Sherlock but was distinctly heavier. His eyes were steady and shrewd while his mouth was set on a grim line. He was an oppressive contrast against the uniformed wolves around the alley.

 

“Do carry on,” the man said lightly but without any trace of softness, as if he was just stating that the wheels should roll for the lights are green, and not really expecting that anyone would not heed him. And while he didn’t address it to anyone in particular, all the others had simply nodded, eyes on their feet and did exactly what they had been doing before Sherlock has regained control of his awareness and commanded them to cease. This man’s sharp eyes were on Sherlock all the while, holding the other man’s gaze.

 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock drawled disdainfully. “Should’ve known you’re the reason the air’s rancid, utterly despicable.”

 

“If that is your way of expressing your gratitude for my meddling in your affairs to save you, then you are doing a poor job of it.” Mycroft said, humming, the expression on his face fully controlled. “You could do a little practice. Truly, the precious minutes could’ve done the world a favor.”

 

“Might I remind you that nobody asked for you to waste your time in my affairs?” Sherlock replied curtly, his lips curling to a scowl. “If I know any better, it’s just you nosing about and being utterly annoying for the sake of your sick amusement.”

 

Mycroft glanced at the nails of his hands and idled about lazily as if pondering his reply. Looking at Sherlock from under his lashes, and ignoring the alpha’s statement, he casually drawled, “You’ve gotten in over your head this time, brother. While it says one thing about your courage, surely you did not think yourself capable of dealing against a most formidable drug ring by yourself—I’d say one that is dominating the London underground?”

 

“I handled it perfectly well.” Sherlock shot back.

 

“You handled an insignificant number of them—that would’ve hardly done any damage, just a mere graze on what is considerably a mature, self supporting bark.” Mycroft held his palm open, expecting, and true enough one of the men came towards him and placed a dart on his awaiting hand. He took a brief sniff at it before letting his hand fall to his side. “And you didn’t handle it alone. I presume that an appropriate way of showing gratitude ought to be in place for the omega’s help but I daresay I’m also considering going for punishment for having the gall to shoot an alpha—and not just any alpha at that.”

 

A growl came from Sherlock’s throat.

 

“You didn’t really think it would escape my notice that your curious man’s an  _omega_ , brother?” Mycroft mocked, raising an eyebrow. “While there are only so little one could gather from video feeds, you’re essentially melodramatic enough for me to understand most of the details.” His lips twitched to what was a beginning of a smug grin.

 

“ _None of your business._ ”  Sherlock snapped as he rounded on the older Holmes, baring his fangs defiantly when he got near enough. He found him first. He was technically  _his_. It wasn’t enough that Mycroft and his men had to sully the scene and the ground, and the air, and the omega’s existence, and the dart… “He’s  _mine,”_ he hissed as he snatched the tranquilizer dart from Mycroft’s hands. The omega was Sherlock’s puzzle. Oh!  _Oh!_  For Sherlock had just used his affected arm and was belatedly reminded of the knife wound the stupid alpha that was all muscles had inflicted upon him previously. He held out his forearm, brushed back the sleeves and scrutinized the gauze dressing that had been carefully and meticulously wrapped around his gash, tight enough to apply the pressure and precise enough to serve its purpose.  _A medical man!_  Or one trained in the field. Sherlock wished he had been conscious enough to have deduced the man from the latter’s calluses. There had been enough touching and fumbling from the omega’s part. A few more minutes of his full control on his faculties and the omega would have ceased to be puzzle. Sherlock would’ve deduced him. He had been so close. His head whirling in calculation and equations and deciphering possibilities, he abruptly ignored Mycroft and whirled about, dangling the dart in front of his face with his bandaged arm. Good, still managing to keep the bleeding even with extraneous movement.

 

Oh, Mycroft had been right on one thing. That the omega had the gall to shoot him with a tranquilizer dart was one of the gravest mistakes the silly man had committed. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know it yet. Sherlock was quite officially on the hunt.

 

His brother faded into the background as he set his Mind upon the game. He whirled about, looking at the bland walls, imagining the armed men where they had previously lain before he had passed out and before Mycroft’s useless men started to wreck the scene. Knives, gun… One of the men had the gun! The omega seemed to be the practical sort where it counted, caretaker tendencies, Sherlock mused as he glanced about his bandaged arm once more and recalled how the thugs were found by Mycroft’s men already bound and secured by scraps of torn clothing. Omega would’ve surely disengaged and pocketed the bullets. He wouldn’t have let the man alone with firearms when the latter had an unconscious target nearby. Sherlock sniffed at the air. It was congested with alpha hormones which was frankly sickening and doesn’t contribute anything to his goal. It was hampering if nothing else. It would’ve been easier on his part had the omega’s scent were not suppressed but where would be the fun in that?

 

He went to the spot where the omega had carefully laid him and crouched on all fours, inhaling at the cobbled stone. The trace scents of mud, fresh grass, rain forest and  _tea_  were still present and he had to find his way from there.  _Tea?_  His lips twitched as he got on his feet and started putting the pieces together so they’d mean something. A medic. An army man. An omega who has hidden himself.  _Why?_ A wolf on the run with only a burlap on his back. A careful, pragmatic man. A man like him couldn’t possibly have an ample supply of pills to keep his gender hidden, not when the chemicals were severely controlled in Scowall for unbonded omega and not when this omega had it in his mind to pack for first-aid medical supplies in that dirty little burlap of his.   _Was he anticipating a rough confrontation along the way or was he considering putting a fight?_  He’d have to be desperate enough to find a quiet place and be able to keep a new identity. This country fortunately also regulates and mostly discourages the use of pills and chemical suppressants. They had to be acquired underground and if Sherlock was correct, the omega was unfamiliar to the place and clearly had no ample resources. A few days, a weekand he’d be exposed to the wolves of the city which was of course not permissible. He had to get to the omega first.

 

 

_“But that thing that you did, it was…amazing.”_

 

A careful man of discipline who was  _awed_ …at Sherlock’s deductions would have listened to the Consulting Detective’ words. That was the second crumb he needed to follow. Sherlock couldn’t help the predatory grin that stole at his lips as he pocketed the dart and pulled out his phone.  The screen that greeted him had been the text message sent by the other wolf to Mycroft in an attempt to get assistance to an unconscious and seemingly  _-but surely not-_  helpless Sherlock. A short laugh rumbled from his chest. While this cannot serve as the third crumb, this was most definitely the second mistake the omega has committed after shooting Sherlock with a dart. And the text! He didn’t know if he ought to find this silly omega adorable or annoying.

 

He gave the screen a gleeful peck with his lips before proceeding to text his brother who was standing just a few paces behind him and watching. Sherlock pressed the send button only as soon as he had rounded the bend and disappeared from their fateful alley without another word. A prolonged exposure to Mycroft was bound to sully his day after all.

 

/Don’t meddle. SH/

 

/He’s an illegal migrant. Government’s business./

 

/Oh, please, as if the country isn’t littered enough as it is with the lot of them! Don’t make him  _your_  business. SH/

 

/He’s an unbound omega./

 

/ Don’t meddle. SH/

 

The omega was his mystery at the moment. His puzzle. His prey. If Mycroft would stop being the irritating, meddling man that he is, he’d have been perfectly content in letting Sherlock investigate the matter on this runaway omega. He was doing the government a favor after all, saving resources and time, even when that was the last thing motivating the younger Holmes and not truly of his concern.  Mycroft had been spot on that the omega was not bonded though.  The blonde wolf was painfully expressive, his face saying the words in behalf of his tongue. Sherlock recounted the way the omega’s pupils dilated, the way his breathing hitched and the way he couldn’t help himself scenting at Sherlock when the alpha had crowded him during his early deductions. Not bonded but clearly of self control, this omega was made of. Interesting.

 

Sherlock stopped on his tracks before he emerged to the main street, from this narrow alley entry clustered with industrialized bins. He unceremoniously bent over the bins and rummage with his gloved hands determinedly.

 

Sherlock would rather think that he deserved the smug grin on his face and by all rights had to wear it as he stared at the ditched, mud stained cloak the omega has previously worn.

 

He was now off to find the third crumb.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is yet again unbeta'd so I send my sincerest apologies for any mistake. Apologies also for the delay, I've been seriously plucking out the plot of the story from the furthest corner of my mind since I didn't get to follow through immediately after the first part was conceived. Thank you all for your gracious support. ^^


	3. The Man With Nerves of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> John Watson never really thought that he was glaringly predictable but he supposed no one really stood a chance against the cutting brilliance in the form of this alpha.
> 
> .

 

Exposing himself among the throng of people without the cover of his cloak had been terribly frightening. He wasn’t a man easily scared, not with both the military and medical career on his plate. He had both killed and patched lives, humans and wolves alike, along the course of his service. He has learned how to keep a part of his mind awake even when he was sleeping, ready and alert for a swift kill if he needed to save his skin, learned how to brave the harsh weather while slipping off from enemies and pursuers. He wasn’t easily frightened, yet apparently, he was. He also knew it was all just  _fine_  to get nerves. He has braced himself for it as a natural consequence of having had to spend the last few months being on the run and watching for his back even as he watched on all possible directions all at once. It has been a chaotic escape and it was bound to take its toll on his mind, bound to cause trauma, even. While he knew he couldn’t be faulted for being a bit irrational, it was to say that he still felt utterly annoyed and a little embarrassed for having felt the crippling fear that washed over him as he shed his cloak and for the first time walked the streets of this huge, unfamiliar city bare of concealment. He felt, in a way, naked and light—but never vulnerable for deep down, the wolf in him can never truly and willingly allow itself to be one.

 

He squinted from the harsh glare of sunlight as he emerged from the narrow, dingy alley and felt the air from his lungs get sucked away rather completely. A passing man or two had spared him a fleeting glance but not a flicker of recognition was reflected on their eyes and John felt himself finally exhale. He hadn’t realized how his lungs tend to fail every time his heart would gallop madly. Swarms of bodies passed him by and it happened with such might and swiftness that he wasn’t given proper time to adjust. He found that he couldn’t react at all from the flood and flurry of activities. The city vibrated, it practically buzzed with the echoes and noises of activities. Nobody cared. He just had to accept it. The place was unreservedly alive and vibrant and chaotic with unrelenting activities that he couldn’t find the time to acclimate. Within an eye’s blink and a mouth’s exhale, he just suddenly became part of the city, swallowed whole mercilessly. It was as if leaving his cloak behind had meant he was leaving the identity he wished to conceal. And while this was a wishful thinking on his part, he had to acknowledge that the brilliant alpha had been right that it was the cloak that inevitably demanded passerby’s attentions. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Eventually someone has bumped into him and he distantly heard someone hissing a sort of  _“move it”_  that he realized he ought to move for apparently not moving wasn’t allowed in this place. He took a couple of tentative steps, his grip tightening on the sling of his burlap, and decided to let the tide of bodies dictate his direction. So he walked, uncertain but resolute, as his heart beat furiously inside his chest and as his blood thrummed inside his body. He needed to keep moving and perhaps it would be more advisable this time around if he himself didn’t know where he was going. He doesn’t really have a clue as to what to do at the moment but he had to avoid being predictable. That alpha detective had a dangerous, sharp mind. If he could trace back the places John has been from, what would be the chances that the man could predict where a runaway omega would hide himself next? His heart fluttered as he thought about the possibility of the alpha going after him. He brushed off whatever image his mind would’ve conceived next. Surely that wasn’t the buzz of excitement he felt from such a daring, treacherous thought.

 

He walked a lot. He walked until the sense of time was lost on him and until the blazing glare of the sun has turned into a mellow, gentle afternoon. His heart eventually settled and his nerves sublimated. The irrational fear of walking in the city exposed was forgotten. It was a small accomplishment he was actually grateful for. He was learning to pick up the traces of confidence his hiding has drilled away. He could blend in. He could do it. He could start a life. But first thing’s first. He had to be realistic where he stood. His clothes were filthy. He  _felt_  filthy. He was covered with dry mud and blood and days worth of sweat. He also probably stunk horribly whether or not he can smell his own scent. He frowned at that. It wasn’t a comfort to know that he has become desensitized to his own smell especially when he was a wolf. There’s only so little his general appearance could take him without attracting suspicion and scrutiny which was probably the reason why he has once again found himself in a place with narrow, littered streets in the downtown part of the city this time inhabited by the homeless population. He reckoned he wouldn’t be safer anywhere, not if he’d stayed in a place where the groomed ones could easily pinpoint a ragged, oblivious civilian. He would fit here, at least, during the moment where decent clothes and a bath were still unavailable to him. No one would, after all, question what a man who barely owned anything was doing in a place industrialized with makeshift houses of cartons, bins, plastics and torn clothes. He desperately needed to settle and staying homeless for one more night would be the least of his problems. He needed a spot before the dark; fortunately, he wasn’t entirely without anything to offer.

 

He was privileged to have his scent concealed. Surprisingly, the land of the homeless consisted of both men and wolves. He recognized some young and old alphas and betas and a lot of ordinary men all existing and cohabiting in the same place, apparently sharing with the ground and acknowledging each other. From where John had come from, the wolves tend to isolate themselves from the humans and the latter were generally more cautious and mistrustful of the other kind. Scowall was dominated and run by wolves who were given more power and control. This place seemed to promote the contrary, the inter-mingling. But as to be expected, there wasn’t an omega in this place. That’s the one thing this land shared with Scowall—omegas weren’t allowed to be  _unsheltered_. They wouldn’t have been left alone for long anywhere they would find themselves in. It made his skin crawl to think he could’ve been in a worse predicament had he not taken the pills. He was on borrowed time. He could feel the moon calling. It would come within the week but he’d be able to refuse its call. He was fortunate still. Alone and without solid walls around him, he wouldn’t have been capable of holding his own against the alphas that would’ve roamed at the night of the full moon if they found out what he was. He clawed at the air as he shuddered at the thought.

 

He steeled his overactive nerves with a breath as he walked towards a group clustered around a bonfire. The idea has blossomed when he passed by them some minutes ago and saw something his clinical eyes had been trained for before. It simply came naturally. While he loathed using it to his advantage when it was his job to serve it to the needy, he had to acknowledge that he was at the moment someone who also needed all the help he could hoard.

 

The group spared him a glance when he came near enough. The faces weren’t hostile but John recognized the stares one would throw at a stranger who could pose a threat. Looking each and every one of them in the eyes, he let his arms fall lax on his sides and lifted his chin. He wouldn’t raise his hands in a sign of surrender though. It was against his core and these people didn’t need someone helpless in their number.

 

“I’m a doctor,” he started, then realizing the flaw of his statement, added, “or I used to be… I have some herbs with me that could provide some relief to your children I noticed are currently having fever and cough.  I only ask that you share the fire and a spot for me during the night.”

 

~*~*~

 

Gaining trust wasn’t easy especially when you’re an unidentified man who claimed to be something without proof and practically told the parents and the elders how you’ll be feeding some concoction of barks and leaves to the already vulnerable children. But he wasn’t a doctor for nothing and he has later proven himself and got the end of his bargain as the night crept by. He was still without roof above his head but he was used to it so it wouldn’t pose a problem when there was a good fire to keep him warm  _but_  he would be sleeping with other people for the first time in a long while, humans and wolves alike, closely as they all huddled and shared the fire and this, this would be a problem. It was new. It was different. It was the reason why even when he was truly exhausted and drained; his discomfort had pushed the sleep away even when he closed his eyes. It was why he was alerted at the dead of the night when an unmistakable sound of gunshot pierced the silence.

 

He stilled as he snapped his eyes open. The four other homeless nearby remained deep in their undisrupted slumber. The night was filled with snoring and the cackling of fire, as well as the strained silence and the faint breathings. It felt like a sham though against the stark contrast of the earlier fired armament. He had a second to think about what he was going to do about the awareness of what was probably happening just a few steps away from where he was. The gunshot, it was close by. The others didn’t even stir from the firearm’s noise. It occurred to him that this kind of thing most probably occur quite regularly in this place. Self preservation mandated that he ought to ignore it. But while curiosity was said to kill cats, he wasn’t one. He was a wolf and so with a silent exhale, he hauled himself onto his feet steadily and securely hooked his burlap on his shoulders. How worse could it get? He was just going to take a look.

 

John stealthily crept close along the shadows on the walls and headed towards the general direction he estimated the gunshot came from. His heart beat steadily inside his chest and it felt like a calming lullaby, grounding him. He counted the seconds it took him to reach the source of the commotion. It was until he reached what looked like an abandoned parking lot at the back of an old factory that he started to make out the shadows. Three armed men were surrounding a skinny figure of a kid defiantly covering a kneeling, trembling girl behind him. The breeze carried with it the mixed smell of alphas and… an  _omega_. John perked up and bristled even as he carefully watched the scenario unfold, making his own deductions and accepting the fact as reasonably as he could. The young girl was an omega and the young lad was probably a relative, a brother. There was a distinct similarity in their smell that purely screamed familial relations. It felt familiar and he had a sense of déjà vu even as he unhooked his bag from his shoulder and once again retrieved his tranquilizer gun from the waist band of his jeans. He was losing his ammo fast and not entirely for the original purpose he had intended them for when he brought it with him during his escape. Scowling, he counted the narrow short darts logged inside his gun. Two more shots.  _Great_. Steadying his breath, he squinted in the dark and allowed his eyes to adjust as he patiently waited for a chance to intervene as would be required. He inched closer as the place allowed him without being detected, concealing his physique among the shadows.

 

He waited for the voice at the back of his mind to stop him. Nothing came. The human and the wolf in him were agreeing on the same thing. He really couldn’t afford to get discovered but he keeps finding himself most unfortunately bumping into situations where he was required to interlope among the affairs of the wolves and all of these during the first day he has set foot on this country he wished to hide himself in. Speak about fate’s irony… Sooner or later, someone was bound to recognize him or worse, he could get caught by this land’s authorities and be discovered how he illegally accessed the country. These were the thoughts he needed to ponder about but only later. There were children at stake and one of them was omega and John would simply just have to kill himself to ignore it.

 

The omega child was quivering, frozen and as pale as sheet behind the alpha boy who was baring his teeth at the bigger, and unfairly armed men. The only advantage John could glean from the scenario was the obvious sneers on the larger wolves’ faces and relaxed hold on their guns. It was crystal that a scrawny alpha kid hardly posed a threat to them.

 

“Leave my sister alone!” The kid snarled.

 

“Or what,  _Raz_?” A raspy voice answered and John saw the middle man advance until he was directly looming over the boy. “You think you could stop us? You think someone would miraculously come to help you? You heard the shots. Nobody would care about a couple of sniveling homeless kids.”

 

“We  _aren’t_  homeless.” The boy named Raz defiantly retorted.

 

The man gave a humorless snort before swinging his arm and letting his closed fist hit the boy square on his face. The girl gave a short, horrified cry even as she crawled over the crumpled body of her brother.

 

“A job’s a job. Just because you signed up for it doesn’t make you an exception.”

 

“She isn’t part of the deal.” Raz grunted weakly as he coughed and wheezed from the ground.

 

“Shame. You also didn’t tell us she was an omega.”

 

“Enough of this drama.” Another man said disinterestedly. “Let’s just get the job done. It’s late enough as it is.”

 

The man who’d hit the boy approached the girl and wrapped his beefy hands on her forearm before violently tugging on it and hauling her on her feet. She half stumbled directly against the man’s side even as she valiantly but vainly attempted to pull herself free. The man was relentless and initially barely spared her a glance as he continued to drag her away until she sank her teeth on his wrist with scarcely contained aggravation and drew blood. John admired the rawness of the act, her child teeth gleaming white against the moonlight. The huge man growled and raised his other hand, the one holding the gun, and before he could swing it down on the girl, John took his shot.

 

The dart hit the assaulting man squarely on the side of his neck, the pointed metal piercing through the vulnerable exposed flesh. A breathe. Then John took aim once again before the other wolves could take the time to react, and fired another round at the second alpha, this time planting the dart somewhere on the man’s chest. His tranquilizer gun glinted against the dark and his second shot has given the remaining thug ample time to locate his position. John ducked on the ground even as bullets were fired and whizzed by him, from where he was previously standing. He needed cover. Silently wishing that the man not take advantage of the presence of a hostage, he rolled on the dirt until he had brick walls shielding him from the thug’s direct view. He kept his ears sharp for telltale signs of the alpha going for the children and was inwardly glad to hear instead the footsteps of pursuit going at his direction. That’s what he loved about alphas; they could get absolutely stupid in their egoistic temper. The thug as a typical alpha temperamental manifestation now wanted John’s blood. He wished the kids could’ve found this as a chance for escape.

 

He sprinted as fast as he could and as silently as the ground could allow him. He kept his eyes sharp for finding places that could allow him leverage or even the slightest semblance of shelter from possible bullets aimed at him. He also needed to avoid running straight to the place the homeless were all peacefully and unwarily taking their slumber. No casualties. He had to at least involve as little as he could. He rounded and run on alleys upon alleys he hasn’t been too before. If he wasn’t so busy saving his own ass, he would’ve taken the time to snort. Alphas and alleys were becoming the least of his favorite combination. He rounded a corner and felt his heart sink. It was an open space. He had inadvertently reached an  _open space_. Gritting his teeth, he turned his eyes back at the alley he had come from and saw the shadow of the thug already catching up to him. He ducked low and rolled on the ground even as the silence of the night was pierced by another gunshot. The bang echoed closely on his ear and he had for a moment become deaf, hearing only the harsh, rapid breathing that was his own even as liquid fire curled and spread somewhere on his side. It stung and the pain was almost crippling but he found that he was still moving, half rolling and half kneeling on the ground even as his body reacted on its own to try to get as far away as possible from the threat. Must be a bullet graze then, if his limbs were still attached and listening to his brain’s command. The pain was immense but John knew he wouldn’t have been able to move if he was truly shot. He knew what that feels like after all. He was cold and hot at the same time. Covering with his bare hand  the torn flesh that now begun to trickle with blood, John steadied himself and twisted back so that he was facing his attacker. If he was going to get killed, he’d rather see the fucker in the face. Funny how he would get himself killed even before his true pursuers could reach him.

 

The huge alpha had eyes that screamed murder, his bearded jaw clenched tight even as he stalked towards John with the gun pointed at the doctor’s face. John remembered how his mother used to say that John’s height wasn’t just genetic, that it was also because he was an omega and simply not built for combat. He has always hated that idea but now he couldn’t brush away the thought that the alpha in front of him seemed indeed big.

 

“You little shit,” the man growled, his eyes twitching malevolently, “who sent you!?”

 

And that, John thought, was probably the sole reason he was kept alive and not directly shot at in the head. The thug clearly wanted answers, entertaining the idea that someone was onto them. And the reason they were after the little girl finally made sense. John ought to have realized it earlier. These men were members of an omega smuggling ring. He dug his nails on the ground in frustration. It was the same everywhere. These beasts—they prowl everywhere.

 

John glared evenly at the other man looming over him and threatening to blow his brains out. He wasn’t particularly a threat against the criminals’ ring but it wouldn’t hurt to hold the knowledge away and in its place plant a reason for fear. He bit the inside of his cheeks and stared spitefully. Distinctly, he felt the phantom ache on his left shoulder. His old gun wound—the bane of his existence, the very source of all the woes and dangers he was escaping from at this point in time. The night was cold and the chill of the air bit at him but he felt unusually warm from the bullet graze that continued to soak his shirt with blood. His left shoulder felt like ice though and so were his hands. He was distinctly aware that his body was scrambling to prepare for the inevitable bullet, his system relieving the horrific experience he had suffered and lived through before. All he could do was steady his breath and look his adversary in the eyes.

 

The familiar smell hit him even before he saw. It must’ve been the breeze for the thug seemed to have not noticed it as he did. The thick, intoxicating, heady scent permeated the air and he felt his blood surge and sing in excitement, as if responding to a call. It enveloped him and John shuddered at how much it could affect him that it should be illegal. There’s an  _alpha_ standing right in front of him holding a bloody gun at his face and all he could think about was the smell of someone else. And before he could further mull about it, he saw a blur of shadow tearing itself away from the darkness then lunged and sent a flurry of limbs against the thug’s back. The arm holding the gun has been propelled askew, and was fired in midair, towards the sky, even as a long limb bent and viciously kneeled at the thug’s abdomen. It was unrefined and ruthless but there was the unmistakable grace in its swift execution. The man was enviously nimble.  John watched, reluctantly but wholly fascinated, as the tall, lithe figure of the curly haired  _consulting_  detective finally sent another fistful onto the thug’s nose. He whipped around towards John even before the other man hit the solid ground. This alpha,  _Sherlock_ , for that was his name, had his eyes blown wide even as his nostrils flared and his chest heaved silently and steadily controlled. His pale cheeks were uncharacteristically tinted with color from the fight. Alpha. There was no doubt in John’s mind what this wolf looming over him truly was.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were bright as they skimmed over John’s person before those silver orbs finally alighted and met the omega’s blue ones. There was a triumphant glint in those eyes. There was a subtle flicker on his face, almost like recognition, an emotion John couldn’t truly identify but then it was gone and the alpha was instead sporting a smug smirk at him that almost looked like a spasm at the edge of his lips.

 

“You certainly have been busy,  _doctor_.” Sherlock drawled, tipping his head at the side even as he stared John with an unearthly stillness.

 

There were so many things he could’ve said at this point, so many ways he could’ve responded, but whether it was attributed to his fatigue, to his loss of blood, or to the ludicrousness of this whole scenario, John for the life of him couldn’t decide how he ought to feel about the unfolding situation. He felt like a rag had been pulled beneath his feet and he was tipping over—only it doesn’t stop and he kept flipping over and over.

 

“ _How_ ,” was all John managed, which seemed to have been this…  _bizarre_   _wolf who comes like a hurricane_ —for John couldn’t decide how he ought to feel about him—was waiting for.

 

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and muttered something about  _‘bread crumbs’_. He reached for something from his pocket before he slowly and quite deliberately dropped some bullets onto the ground next to John. The omega wouldn’t have recognized them had not the alpha unwound something that was tied around his waist, something John belatedly failed to recognize earlier, and dropped it next to John as well. It was his  _sodding_  filthy  _cloak._  John let his gaze brush at the bullets scattered on the ground—all seven of them—and now fully understood. This alpha, this incredibly amazing alpha has  _hunted_  him by finding all the bloody crumbs John has left behind. John felt goose bumps along his limbs and heard the roar of blood on his ear. It really must be attributed to the onslaught of oncoming hypothermia and hypotension that the word escaped his lips.

 

“ _Astounding,”_ he breathed.

 

And then he heard a rustle of clothes. He lifted his eyes and felt his heart stammer to discover the alpha crouching low in front of him, his face inches away from John’s as his pale eyes swallow the doctor’s blue ones, and felt rather than saw the predatory wolf sniff. The doctor was surprised by his own control to not have squeaked as he felt the shift of air somewhere on his face. The alpha exhaled and John smelled the other man’s breath.

 

John thought it was actually hilarious. He was the one currently bombarded by the sinful, sharp, captivating scent of the alpha, fighting his control over the base instinct of the wolf in him and this…this Sherlock had the gall to scent him. John wished he still had some rounds of tranq darts with him.

 

 


	4. The Man Who Found His Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> Sherlock found it painfully difficult to suppress the growl that threatened to erupt from his throat. He could’ve whined on the spot just to express his indecision.
> 
> .

 

 

He was torn between feeling unreservedly elated and being sorely disappointed. The omega ex-army doctor, for that was what the wolf unmistakably was, smelled so frustratingly human  _still_. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. There wasn’t even the faintest trace, even the most subtle whiff, which would suggest that the man sprawled on the ground in front of him was a  _wolf_. Clearly, judging the man from his scent alone could’ve produced the gravest error. The man’s smell sorely contradicts Sherlock’s unshakable observations of the latter’s identity. His nose could’ve fooled him had he singly relied on it like the rest of the world would. Crumbled in front of him, as still and as unflinching as a rod, was a picture of an ordinary human man incapable of responding to the moon’s call to grow some fangs and claws. Sherlock took another stretched sniff, this time intimately closer, dragging his nose along the length of the neck until the tip of his nose almost touched the crook where the omega’s neck and shoulder meets.  _Nothing_. There was the distinct tang of the man’s skin but while it was agreeably unique and while it could very well serve as one of his distinctive aspects that would separate him from the rest, it was still so unbelievably and most frustratingly  _human_. Whatever chemical this omega had taken, it was wholly potent—that or the man has been taking the drug for a hideously extended time enough for his own body to forget what it truly is. Sherlock took another lungful of the man’s scent, greedy for an influx of information./  _Smoke. Sweat. Dirt. Blood. Rainforest. Earth. Oil. Tea./_   **Interesting.**  It was almost funny how the aroma of tea seemed to stubbornly cling onto the man’s skin. Sherlock scowled. He really was at the precipice that held the bar between displeasure and joy. For one, a wolf ought to possess his scent for it was, in a way, a ground that held them separately from humans. It was wrong for one to wear blunted teeth when it was fangs he was truly gifted with. But then, that the wolf was successfully shedding his skin and pretending to be a harmless little lamb was ingenious in its uniqueness. Sherlock found it painfully difficult to suppress the growl that threatened to erupt from his throat. He could’ve whined on the spot just to express his indecision.

 

Biology, it appears, could still prove to be an adversary to one’s self. The other man’s breathing had become so shallow, so controlled, so labored that is was evident how the omega was fighting off an impulse. He has grown stiff when Sherlock crossed the imaginary boundary of personal space—whoever invented that for it was dull and pointless—and took a whiff. While the omega was obviously holding his breath being this close to an alpha, Sherlock noticed how the man’s breath hitched when he took a whiff. It was necessary for his data collection after all and if he pretended not to when, in fact, he noticed how the doctor responded by secretly sniffing back Sherlock’s smell in short, stunted inhales, then it would just serve as yet another proof to his deduction. The man in front of him was without doubt, a  _wolf_. The omega’s shoulders were tensed and his limbs were rigidly steady even as his right hand held the wound on his flank. The dominant hand, however, was still clutching at his unloaded tranquilizer gun, uselessly curled at the trigger. Sherlock reckoned that if he was to press an ear to the other wolf’s chest, the heartbeat he’d hear would be galloping like a frantic horse. And wasn’t the omega just a treat, holding his ground as an alpha proceeded with unwanted and unsolicited ministrations? His face controllably blank, Sherlock finally withdrew enough to look the runaway omega in the face.

 

“Two crime rings in one day. Have you a penchant for trouble,  _doctor_?” he drawled, “or do you simply find delight in interloping with wolves’ business?”

 

The omega kept his jaws clenched, his arms deceptively at his side even when they were truthfully poised to strike. Refusing to speak, he merely leveled a wary gaze at Sherlock, measuring him up, sneakily calculating the distance between them and the arrays of alleys that served as temptation for an escape. It was a captivating sight, the omega’s steel gaze. Covered in filth, slumped on the ground, wounded and bleeding, and alone with a self-possessed alpha in front of him, the ex-army doctor was a portrait of a man cornered; his hackles were raised, his whole person overwrought,  yet somehow he was steady, and deprived of  _fear_. He was a wolf alright and one nobody should mistake to a domesticated canine or worse, a human. Belatedly acknowledging the information that could prove vital at the moment, Sherlock flicked his gaze down at the man’s leaking wound. The blood continued to ooze in what would seem to be of significant amount, his shirt terribly soaked by now. It had to be excruciatingly painful if the man’s profuse sweating was any indication. The edges of his eyes were wrinkled in an effort to fend off the winces that rightfully deserved the place. He ought to be severely close to fainting from the pain and loss of blood.

 

Sherlock unwounded the midnight blue scarf wrapped around his neck and without preamble pressed the thick cloth against the omega’s hand that was futilely covering the bullet graze. The omega gave a subtle shift even as his eyes searchingly looked at the alpha’s silver ones. Sherlock didn’t know what the other man may have seen in them but he reckoned it was enough as the omega slowly lifted his fingers to hold the cloth on his own and pressed it heavily on his wound.

 

“The police are on their way.” Sherlock said, his eyes trained at the sight of his own scarf in the omega’s hand. “They are unreliable but they would bring an ambulance with them which you evidently need at the moment.”

 

There was the briefest flicker on the omega’s face which could only be of panic but the other man has quickly schooled his face.  _Of course_. The mention of any formal authority, especially the police, could at this point only be deemed as threat and unwanted attention. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Didn’t this man hear Sherlock say the police were unreliable? The mention of ambulance probably caused the omega to be flooded of cascading thoughts concerning blood works and other investigations that could expose him for what he truly was; he was a doctor after all. It was to be noted how the other wolf was unbelievably expressive that even without saying anything, Sherlock was hearing answers to his statements.

 

“The children,” the omega rasped, his voice dry but coated with concern, “do you know anything of the children?” Then as if a thought had just suddenly occurred to him, “Are you—?”

 

“I’m  _a Consulting Detective_  as I’ve told you already.” Sherlock sniped. “I’m not with those brutes.” He supplied disdainfully.

 

“Oh.”

 

“And the children are safe. They escaped when the alpha ran after you. I know where they are of course and they will be directed to Lestrade’s attention to be on the safer side.”

 

The omega frowned at this and tilted his head. Ah, finally, a reaction. It was satisfying even when Sherlock himself hadn’t expected the omega’s first query to be about the younglings. The omega girl would be registered to a government social center as she has the right to it and Raz would receive help as he would be inevitably become part of Sherlock’s homeless network. He let the silence roll as he waited patiently for the omega to hold his bearing. This wolf’s caretaker tendency was ingrained so heavily in him that we wore it like a skin.

 

“Lestrade?” The doctor finally asked.

 

“Just someone from the MET,” Sherlock explained. “He’s a Detective Inspector but he’s the most tolerable among the lot.”

 

“That’s fine, then.” The omega said, relieved.

 

Sherlock gave a non-committal noise.

 

The silence was pierced like a knife on a fabric as the sirens of the police cars hollered, the echoes growing louder as they hear the rubbers crunch the gravels beneath them.

 

“Let me go.”

 

It was said softly, carefully, that Sherlock was for a beat puzzled if that has been the result of the other wolf’s weakened state brought by blood loss or merely a fruit handed by uncertainty. Then the doctor lifted his chin and with bright piercing blue eyes held the Consulting Detective’s attention.

 

“Let me get away,” he repeated resolutely, “I promise not cause trouble.”

 

Sherlock’s lips were quick to twitch at this even before his mind could process a response, unintentionally neglecting the gravity under which the other wolf was making his case. The omega gave him a puzzled look even as Sherlock’s lips bloomed to a full, awkward grin. “I daresay you’ve gotten yourself involved in a lot of troubles already,  _doctor_.” He clarified.

 

The omega cringed, then stilled; he looked defensive before somewhat acquiescent; he reddened in indignation before his eyes relaxed in its blueness filled with mirth; he looked about to argue but it was transformed midway before a word could pass between his lips and what came out as a result then after was a short, choking cough. It was beautiful.

 

“That wasn’t how I meant it.” He said in forcefully schooled neutrality. He licked his lower lip before digging his teeth at its corner, fighting off an equal traitorous grin.

 

“I know,” Sherlock said lightly, his eyebrows curving in a relaxed arc. “But that doesn’t make it untrue.”

 

“So, will you?” the omega asked hopefully, “let me free?”

 

“No.” Sherlock said. “You are hardly my captive for me to free.”

 

“Let me walk away, then?”

 

“No.” Sherlock tilted his head to his side. The omega’s jaw shut tightly before glaring at him.

 

Sherlock glanced pointedly at the omega’s wound before rising to his feet. Footsteps came in a jog just as soon as the Consulting Detective straightened to his full height. The presence of another wolf became palpable as the air was drenched with another scent. Sherlock whipped around, clamping his hands behind his back and faced the form of a man in suit and bullet proof vest, gun held with both hands.

 

“Lestrade.” Sherlock acknowledged crisply.

 

“Sherlock. What on earth have you gotten yourself into?” Lestrade muttered, scrunching his face as he stared down at the unconscious body of the alpha smuggler. “And pray tell who that man is?” He asked when he finally regarded John’s presence.

 

“A smuggling ring your department failed to disassemble, clearly. This is  _Doctor John Watson_ , the man who subdued your smugglers. Should you be asking questions instead of calling the medics when the man here who has done the world a favor is bleeding himself to unconsciousness?” Sherlock rattled in rapid succession.

 

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him the soonest that the omega’s true name rolled off his tongue. Sherlock wished he’d have seen the man’s expression. He imagined he could hear the rapid rush of blood and the beat of a quivering heart from the doctor behind him.

 

Lestrade, on the other hand, looked dubiously from the man in question then to Sherlock then back to the other man again. He was unambiguously taking in the omega’s mud covered, tattered, filthy apparel as well as the tranquilizer gun on the omega’s hand. The ex-army doctor’s hair was matted with days worth of dirt, his face unshaven. He was a classic example of a man bedraggled and homeless. They technically _were_  in the Homeless neighborhood. Lestrade’s eyes swerved back down at the tranquilizer gun on the omega’s hands before darting to the thug’s unconscious form.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _“Oh for the love of god!”_  He snapped. He shoved a gloved hand in the pocket of his cloak and retrieved the tranquilizer dart the omega had planted on him earlier, and then waved it in the air in front of him. “Obviously the gun belongs to  _me_. Registered I might add,- ask  _Mycroft_ ,” he muttered his brother’s name with dripping revulsion. It was the perfect excuse, the most effective smokescreen loathed he may be to use it. “John here’s a colleague of mine— _my flat mate_ , actually. Now why don’t you get your medics here so they could do their job?”

 

There was a thrill that run up his spine when he called the omega by his name. It was a name so boringly common but he reckoned it felt right on the muscle which was his tongue. It slurred sweetly with every letter. It felt even more right when his mind has seemingly spontaneously decided to invite the omega to be his flat mate—which the latter would inescapably  _be_  since Sherlock was determined to get his way. He really was proud of his intelligence. Who was he not to trust the genius that was his mind? The surprise when he realized how he was thrilled at the prospect was gripping in its intensity. He looked forward to it, almost hungered for it. The omega, after all, wasn’t completely unraveled yet. His puzzle still dangling a profound attraction.

 

Lestrade was just as startled if his widened eyes and open mouth was anything to judge by; but he was a police on duty bound to be responsible by his work and he was a beta rained with demands by an alpha. Sherlock most definitely took advantage of his alpha influence where he could find loopholes to use it. With a resigned sigh, Lestrade turned his back and called out loud, his free hand already dialing a number on his mobile.

 

Sherlock hastily shut Lestrade’s useless hollers off, whipped to face the omega suffering from apnea, crouched down, and reached with both hands and grabbed the other man’s shoulders firmly. He leaned forward so that they’re faces were merely inches apart.

 

“Would you trust me on this?” He said seriously under his breath, his voice deep and imploring. The hunt wasn’t over yet, the mysteries unresolved.

 

The omega took a sluggish inhale and searched for something in his eyes yet again, then at his face, blue eyes flicking at the edges and curves of Sherlock’s feature. His skin has become significantly pale and the pain was now extremely evident, his blue orbs glazed even as the corners of his eyes were cringing and grimacing. He was holding himself torturously well even when the bundle of nerves and muscles in his limbs were strained and very near to burning.

 

“John, trust me.” Sherlock said under his breath. He had plans. They would work. While Lestrade may be preoccupied with other things at the moment, the man could unreliably have his spotlights and exhibit chances of attentiveness just when Sherlock prayed for otherwise.

 

The omega held his breath this time, his eyes unwaveringly holding Sherlock’s.

 

“They won’t get to you.” Sherlock hissed, figuring the demons that were plaguing the omega’s mind. The other man, in his near to fainting condition, was also struggling for the threads of clarity and consciousness. Sherlock could see it as clear as crystal he’d bet anyone would too. The omega’s breathing was erratic; his pulse was feeble when the Consulting Detective dropped an arm and brushed his fingers on the doctor’s wrist before pressing his palm over the back of the latter’s clammy hands firmly to exert more pressure over the bleeding wound.

 

John Watson winced when Sherlock pressed tighter and Sherlock, in turn, watched as the omega finally decided to surrender in his battle against the excruciating pain and blood loss.

 

“Promise me.”

 

Sherlock wondered what worth a single word would hold, wondered what it was the omega seemed to search on his face every time a decision was asked of him.

 

_/”Astounding.”/ John Watson had said in a rushed breath._

 

Clicking his teeth together, he merely allowed himself a brief nod. It was some sort of beacon very much awaited, for he hasn’t even completely raised his face from the nod when the other man’s eyes flickered one more time before completely shutting close. His body sagged and fell forward in a flaccid heap, the infirmity lording over sheer force of will. Sherlock, trapped in his position, allowed the ex-army doctor’s face to land on his shoulder. It was the logical thing to do after all, what with his left hand occupied in its mission to hold the pressure over the leaking flesh for the the unconscious omega.

 

He heard Lestrade stepping closer behind him.

 

“Is he—”

 

“I got him.” Sherlock said without turning to look, his voice rumbling from his chest. “Just get your medics.”

 

_/”Astounding.”/_

 

An inhale.

 

“I got him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistake. Kind of hurriedly posted this one when I realized how I was behind my intended schedule for a lot of things. Thank you all for your gracious comments and suggestions. I am in love with all of you in the Fandom just as much as I'm in love with the Shipping.^^


	5. The Man With a New Howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  He walked conscientiously into an entrapment, every step covered done with consent. Deep down, he acknowledged how tired he was of running. Had he been a wolf at this particular time, he’d have howled to the moon, or the sun, or the black canvas that was the sky.  
> .

 

~*~*~

 

He was running, panting, and trembling; his powerful thighs carrying the whole of his weight against the wind, his large paws sinking into the searing desert sand, and his thick pelt feeling heavy under the unsympathetic glare of the sun. The sun, while it never has been an enemy to him more than an indifferent observer felt to be cheering against his favor. He felt so tired; the exhaustion so profound he felt as if he was running under water with the snuff of his nose submerged down under, the air extricated completely from his lungs. His tongue was tucked at the roof of his mouth, drained and sensitized. It was all he could do to prevent it from lolling at the side of his jaws. He wasn’t a damn dog. He caught the acrid scent of blood. _Fresh one_. He stumbled and rolled on the ground with the dawning realization, his body giving in from the onslaught of sudden, staggering pain. He let out a howl that was a half whimper and half growl. Recovering from his fall, he heaved himself up, supporting the majority of his upper torso with his fore right leg, and looked back over his shoulder. The sand was smeared with blood, the golden grains soaked in deep, scarlet red. There was a vacuum somewhere on his left, a gaping hole that continued to eat at him. _Ah_ , he was shot. It was his blood. He was being sought, being hunted so fiercely. He was in the Afghan desert. He was in his own country. He was in a Pack that turned in on him, the same one he has turned against. He was dreaming. He was reliving the nightmare where he wasn’t just a tourist. He was in everywhere and everything where he couldn’t be anything but what the mercy of his dream dictated.

 

He let his eyes drift shut. This never gets easier. Knowing did not entirely mean that everything else was a ruse. The pain on his left shoulder where he was shot in his human form was never an ounce lesser than what it has really been. The only advantage he could glean from this, if one could call it so, was that unlike three years ago, he wasn’t allowed to pass out from mere loss of blood. He was trapped, most severely so.

 

A low menacing growl sounded nearby, the threat reverberating around the granite walls, the air stilling before morphing with a reinforced chill and being tainted with the heavy smell of another wolf. He opened his eyes to find that he was back on his human form, wearing his military fatigues, a gaping wound burning on his shoulder as blood trickled down his arm. In front of him, a couple of meters away, stood a wolf with slick raven furs that lighten to streaks of grey as they encompass the lean, strong legs. It’s glinting brown eyes were locked at him, its lips pulled at the teeth, its slightly parted jaws pointed at the side to give John the impression of its expression. That wasn’t so hard to decipher seeing that John had actually met this dangerous, maniacal, wicked wolf, much to his chagrin. It was a he and an alpha. And he was most definitely smiling a sinister smile back at John, like how a beast was proud of itself for finally trapping an elusive little, stray stag.

 

John was trapped but he was hardly little and he was most definitely not a stag; but what was elusive of him at this moment was control. At the wolf’s back stood the shadows of his Pack, all eyeing him, keeping him in place, the ground around them amassed with entrails and decapitated bodies of John’s comrades from the military, humans and wolves alike.

 

The alpha wolf with the raven mane took a step closer. John held his breath and looked up pleadingly at the night sky. His goddess, the moon, was not even present to break the black sea of stars. The urge to howl was overpowering, he could imagine his vocal cords vibrating at the mere anticipation of performing the act. His lungs heaved deeply for the cry that madly desires to be born and pierce the silence… but he was in his human form and no sound came out of his mouth but a defensive rumble and a low utterance of breath as the threat in the form of a wolf silently closed the distance between them.

 

~*~*~

 

He awoke hearing the receding echoes of his own cries. He supposed it made sense that when his howl failed to materialize in his waking dream, it would erupt and force its existence in the form of his human voice whether or not he was conscious of it. Trauma and nerves were that powerful to take up residence in his own mind. His throat was sore, as if the epithelial and tissues were lacerated, bleeding dry and abused. His lungs heaved and collapsed onto themselves before finally allowing air to inflate them once again. He rolled onto his side violently, dragging the thin sheet that covered his body along, entangling his limbs more complicatedly with it. He reeked of his own sweat and it was the only thing he could allow himself to ground onto.

 

“ _Oh God_ ,” John groaned, both in exasperation and dread. He allowed his lungs to catch up with his breath and his heart to slow its pace. The room had at first seemed to be enveloped with nothing but silence but as his senses begin to acclimate themselves to the waking state, he grew aware of the muffled sounds of activities behind the closed door and across the paved walls. He took in the light that poured generously from the window and the strong smell of chemicals and disinfectants. Growing more attentive of his unfamiliar surroundings, a territory he hasn’t truly ventured in for and assessed to be harmless or not, John stilled himself and slowed his inhales. It had been apparent quite quickly that he was indeed alone in the room and that was quite a surprise for him, for he wasn’t tied or cuffed to the bed as he would have expected. That he was in a medical facility was actually to be projected since he was wounded by a bullet graze, and wanted or not, any authority who would’ve wanted him for whatever purpose would still have been forced to demonstrate the decency to get him treated, most especially if they already knew what he was. His pulse quickened as the trepidation hastily came back to him _. He was in a hospital_. He was yet again repeating the same mistake over and over. He lifted his good arm and bent his head so he could take a sniff somewhere near his underarm _. Nothing_. There wasn’t even the most miniscule trace of him being an omega and it was good. He hadn’t been unconscious for more than 24 hours at the most, then. It was such an utter relief that he’s allowed himself to turn on his back and gaze at the white washed ceiling, counting the beats of his heart.  He was back to his prime condition. The pain from the bullet graze was merely dull and uncomfortable—the site tender at the most but never truly excruciating even when he moved on the bed. Unlike the true bullet wound he got on his left shoulder, the graze wasn’t of silver ammo. A dressing was still covering the gash on his abdomen but he reckoned the doctors had patched it up with silken sutures. His skin would’ve by now repaired itself already, the flesh knitted with rapid regeneration.  He was a wolf after all. What he couldn’t truly afford at this time was to have anyone of medical profession near it and take a closer look. They would have seen the rate of his recovery and would immediately discover how he wasn’t simply human. What he needed at the moment was a clear head. He’d been apparently staying long and unconscious in the room, another minute wouldn’t have hurt. Possibly.

 

He languidly took an inhale. _Humans. Wolves_. He could smell a myriad of confusing smells that got entangled among each other to truly make sense but what compellingly stood out among the rest was the captivating, refreshing and warm scent of the Consulting Detective alpha—of _Sherlock_ , his double-crossing mind supplied. He let out a most suffering growl and attempted to wipe the equally suffering expression off his face by swiping his hand on his face. It was a _very, most sincerely_ poor act on his part. Whereas the room had traces of Sherlock Holmes’ scent to indicate that the man had stayed during some time in the night in the same room, John’s hand was deeply coated with the heavy scent of the alpha wolf.  It was a drug he didn’t need an access to in his currently tormented condition. It literally was temptation placed flat on his hands. He belatedly remembered the Consulting Detective unwrapping the scarf from his slender, pale neck and handing it to John where the latter used it to press on his bleeding wound. John couldn’t really blame himself even when it had been another poor judgment on his part, accepting that cloth. He was already lightheaded from both the blood loss and pain at that time to actually worry about the alpha’s concentrated scent sticking onto his person; but these bloody nurses and doctors—the lot of them he could blame! While they clearly took the time to clean his wound and disinfect what out to be disinfected, they frustratingly neglected to disinfect his hands but for saline. A low growl emanated from his chest and he bit at his lips vehemently to refrain from the temptation to cover his nose and mouth with his hand. Raking his nails at the bed sheet, he pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet.

 

Atop his bedside table was his flimsy burlap. He lowered his head and sniffed at it. _Human scents_. It wasn’t touched by another wolf except for the Consulting Detective and John supposed there ought to be a sort of respite found at that seeing to it that the man has already figured out what he truly was...

 

_“Dr. John Watson.”_

 

…And who he was.

 

John begged his body to desist the urge to hyperventilate at the moment. This man, Sherlock Holmes, was formidable indeed, with his intelligence and resources. He needed to find an escape soon or he fears he would find himself in a deeper hole. He walked over to the nearby window, assessing the surrounding and the rate of success should he use this route for his escape. Third floor, his room was on, but there were enough pipes along the walls and his location wasn’t in front of an open inhabited street. While he wasn’t as dexterous and as nimble as the alpha he has had the opportunity to witness in combat for a couple of times, John had his own strong limbs and formidable stamina to trust his life with. The door would never be an option when he cannot be entirely certain that no one was waiting for him at the other side…but as if on cue, he was interrupted when the door creaked open and in came the figure of Sherlock Holmes.

 

The Consulting Detective was wearing the same attire John had seem him in just hours ago. The tall man wore shirts and trousers quite clearly tailored for him which were then covered by his magnificent and striking belstaff coat. John pivoted to fully face the man, refusing to present his back where he could be presenting a vulnerable spot, and watched as the alpha wolf silently entered and closed the door behind him, turning the lock with an audible click. Sherlock regarded him leisurely, pale grey eyes glinting appreciatively as they swept from the omega’s head to his bare feet then back to his face yet again, drinking in the presented image.

 

John was suddenly conscious of the thin, flimsy fabric of the patient gown he was wearing. The cloth fluttered somewhere above his knees and the material clung to his skin from the sweat his body has produced during his nightmare. Fervently hoping that the warming of his face did not mean it colored from the embarrassment or from whatever it was he was feeling, John stared defiantly at the other wolf, his lips pursed in a thin line.

 

“It wouldn’t be very practical for you to use the window as a means of escape,” Sherlock drawled, tilting his head as his eyes flicked towards the aforementioned structure. “It would look inviting and misleadingly unoccupied but Mycroft’s got CCTV cameras all over the place, I assure you.”

 

“Mycroft?” John asked, thrown off the loop by a strange, foreign name, and by the very fact that his plans have been just as easily deciphered and thwarted at the same time.

 

“He’s the government and irrelevant,” Sherlock answered disinterestedly, brushing a hand at the air.

 

John perked up hearing the word and braced himself before the courage would escape from him, “You knew my name.”

 

“Hardly a secret when one knew what to look for.” Sherlock reached for something hidden at the inner folds of his coat and produced a wad of documents sheltered by a paper folder. “I did not have any need of this, but Mycroft couldn’t help showing off. The lazy man probably asked his secretary to tap in with Scowall’s military records.”

 

“You have my file.” John whispered, dumbfounded.

 

 “I already knew of course that you were an omega and a military man. I deduced you were trained in medical field, too, from your expertise in treating my knife wound, but I had to discover that you were actually a doctor from my network. Your name’s John; Something irritatingly common even in this country that you had thrown caution in the wind with regards of using it, so John it is and never something that’s made up.” Sherlock said crisply, a-matter-of-factly, as he set the flat of his palms together before touching the fingertips on his chin like a prayer. “ _Then_ , a military man, posted as human for you were an omega in hiding, human born from a family with bloodlines of wolves –which would be rare and would therefore narrow down the list immensely-, a doctor, and someone currently being searched for.” He folded his arms on his back and engaged John’s eyes. “As I said, I had no need of the file. I would’ve found out your identity even without Mycroft nosing about.”

 

Sherlock carelessly threw the documents on the bed.

 

John had his mouth parted at the torrent of facts rattled by the alpha wolf without a pause for breath. The cascade of information was overwhelming for him. His mind battled with his inner wolf. Run, howl, flee, bow his head, hurl, scent… The mad desire to get as far away as possible was just as strong as the pull to rub himself at the man. He wanted to bare his teeth at the Consulting Detective whereas the wolf wanted to close his jaws and lower his snout. The brilliance takes his breath away just as it did the first time he has met the other wolf. The amazement never waned, not a drop weaker. His heart beat loudly on his ear.

 

“That was…” he breathed under his breath before catching hold of his betraying tongue. He stared at the folder on the top of his sheets, teasing and looking innocent. What would be the harm in looking at what was written on his files? He wanted to reach out and take a peek, his curiosity a monster inviting trouble, so instead he closed his fists at his sides and determinedly look at the younger Holmes. “Network?” He queried instead, his mind supplied what it could not understand.

 

Sherlock Holmes gave him a look that made John think how patience was but a thread holding the huge ball of exasperation behind the alpha’s eyes. “Homeless network, doctor. The ones you treated and stayed with initially,” he explained painstakingly slow. “I should thank you with that by the way. For taking care of my people.”

 

“Your people?” John echoed distractedly, his eyes darting towards the folder every chance they get,

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh for the moon’s sake why don’t you just look at your file,” he finally sniped. “You’re awfully getting side tracked. There’s nothing even remotely important in it.”

 

The file was about him. He was pretty sure it was on his call if the folder had something important, but John let it slide. Without wasting a breath, John closed the distance to his bed and picked up the folder. He quickly flicked the pages with his thumbs, browsing the contents with intimate interest. In front of him, the Consulting Detective kept his silence but John knew how the other man regarded him with keen attention. The ex-army doctor took his time pouring his eyes over the contents, making sure nothing has gone amiss, wanting to at least ascertain whether he was in grave danger of being run down or not, and if what he deeply guarded has been discovered and flagged down. He did not hear anything from the alpha wolf in front of him until he has reached the last page of the file.

 

He closed the folder with a sigh. It was true; the file did not contain anything of significance. It was a bland record of his education and military assignments. He hasn’t even fully raised his head when Sherlock Holmes has most abruptly crowded him. _Again_. John reacted instinctively by clutching the folder close to his chest and backing some steps as the other wolf continued to move forward until John’s back was pressed flatly on the wall. He made a mental note to be wary of this in the future. This should not become a routine.

 

“What is most curious, doctor, is that even when you seemed to be running from an authority of formidable strength, formal or not, nothing has been remotely reported about your chase.” Sherlock narrated with a cutting edge, his sharp eyes glinting and drilling down on John. “You were simply reported as a missing person by your alpha sister and by an omega friend, nothing more than a boring case. You are either suffering from a great delusion your post traumatic mind has created or you are being chased and run down secretly.”

 

“I— _the hell it’s a delusion!_ ” John denied indignantly, a low growl at the edge of his voice, revolted about the idea that he wasn’t of stable mind. It was a difficult feat that it was almost insane, keeping up with this alpha while wrestling with the destruction that was this man’s scent so close to him. He’d have tilted his head most minutely and he reckoned the tip of his nose would brush against the taller man’s collar.

 

“ _Precisely._ ” Sherlock’s voice roared loudly and triumphantly, his pale eyes brightened with something close to unadulterated glee. “Look at how you hold yourself!”

 

John held his breath and ignored the constriction of his chest, stilling every single nerve that would still have the decency to listen to him.

 

“You are being pursued indeed. A runaway hunted by something that must be truly influential and formidable; something with a shocking capacity enough to drive a military trained, medical wolf on the run and out of his territory, out of his country even.” Sherlock continued. “It could be a smuggling ring that discovered your identity, a society of mercenaries sent because of your debts, some assassins hired for blood…” The Consulting detective narrated as he turned on his heels and finally, finally, walked away from John, musing as he wagged his hands in the air. “It could be a lot of things but none of them would be true.”

 

“No?” John felt compelled to ask as the recitation was given in a sequence where the sentences almost had a run in with each other only to be ended with a resounding pause. The omega thought it was one of the best decisions of his life when the alpha’s eyes beamed at him as if approving his question.

 

“No, because then it would be boring, wouldn’t it _, John?_ ” Sherlock slurred. John felt shivers run down his spine upon being addressed closely. He had not heard anyone call him by his name by a long time and this alpha called him as if he already knew John intimately.

 

John opened his mouth then closed it abruptly as the reason reigned over the words.

 

“Who are you? What of the pursuit? And by whom?” The alpha speculated. “Questions, John. Lots of them that couldn’t be possibly answered with a limited amount of time,” he ended with a flourish.

 

“You really can’t expect to hear them from me.”

 

“ _I know_ ,” Sherlock said so very mildly, so very gently, in a tone John wouldn’t have expected from the Consulting Detective who was all abrasive and rude with his razor sharp mind. His eyes has widened and brightened that John was reminded of a child who has decided what he wanted for Christmas. “Don’t you see, John? You don’t need to tell me anything.”

 

“I don’t?”

 

John was almost amused to see how the expression on the alpha’s face flickered painfully, the brows twitching into a grimace and the edge of his lips rumpling. Sherlock Holmes clearly wasn’t fond of the words being repeated.  John chastised himself for recognizing the expression on the other man’s face.

 

“I will deduce them.” Sherlock stated with authority as if it was something that was already written, something irrefutable. Maybe it was. “I will find out about them and you will not say a single word about it.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Because it’s what I am. It’s what I do.”

 

“How?”

 

“Move in with me.”

 

John had the air sucked out of his lungs. He’d been feeling that quite a lot if he would think about it. He opened his mouth but the words failed him and what came out instead were hoarse incoherent sounds made by the seizures on his throat. Now that was ridiculous, impossibly so, but did he really just hear this alpha ask John to live with him with a straight face? God. John let out a humorless laugh, brief and sharp. It had all the crazy nerves that refused to listen to him. He laughed brokenly, incredulously, that the wound on his abdomen throbbed.  This man was insane.

 

“Incredulous.”

 

“Oh please. It’s the most logical solution.” Sherlock scowled. “I need a flat share. You need a place. You wouldn’t have fitted in the homeless neighborhood. You barely survived a quiet night on your own. No. You wanted a cozy afternoon, a peaceful night and a warm bed.”

 

“And you would have given them all?” John thought that maybe he too was insane for entertaining the idea or for answering at all.

 

“No.” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly. “But I can give you tea. You love tea.”

 

“Tea?” John’s lips twitched. He had a feeling that the alpha thought he was being clever. John felt he was tipping over.

 

“And a spare room with a bed,” the alpha offered silkily as if in an afterthought.

 

“I don’t believe I’m in any position that could afford a flat share.” John said lightly, his mind paralyzed by the influx of ideas that needed to be thought about. This was all very dangerous, his brain supplied, but the wolf in him has apparently already decided to lax and nests about contentedly. It was dizzying.

 

“Come see the place and I’ll take the first month as a rain check. You are hardly invalid. You can find yourself a job once you had a proper bath and a good shaving.”

 

“And if I say no and refused all of this?” John ventured carefully.

 

“Then I’d just have to trail behind you every now and then— _I’ll find you, of course_.” Sherlock rolled his eyes when he saw John’s expression, “but I much prefer to do most of it under a roof and with tea.” Now John thought the other wolf was really attempting to be clever. The cheeky bastard.

 

It was so tempting. John almost felt light headed. Nothing had been predictable and in the short course of their conversation, he could already feel the pressing weight of everything that was involved in their conversation. He was being thrown off the loop with the passing seconds and the absurd direction of their dialogue. It was confusing.

 

“You have planned everything out, to entice and enrapture me, haven’t you Mr. Holmes?”

 

“As I said, it’s the logical solution. The tea’s pretty obvious, almost a giveaway.” The alpha wrinkled his nose. “You had your indulgence. Couldn’t live without it, could you?”

 

John tilted his head in consideration. He would have needed an ample amount of time. He also wasn’t fond of staying any longer in the same building where he was a patient to the medical population.

 

He consulted the wolf part in him.

 

It would be a shot in the dark.

 

“And it’s Sherlock.” He heard the alpha offered.

 

 

 


	6. The Man Who Shared His Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Two unbonded wolves shacking together under platonic terms, there was nothing special in it—it wasn’t as if the country would fall—except that Sherlock Holmes was hungry and he didn’t know why.  
> .

 

 

~*~*~

 

He was aroused with _hunger_.

 

He had put it on the eve of the Full Moon drawing nearer, beckoning the beast in him to draw closer towards the surface. It was the only logical solution why he was feeling so blood thirsty he wanted to sink his teeth on raw flesh, hacking and dragging at the taut layers of muscles and bones and fat. His gums ached agonizingly. He would savor the warm pool of blood that would’ve coated his palates, rehydrating the dry throat he was currently suffering, the rich, smooth liquid dripping at the hollow of his esophagus. It would have been _glorious_ , would have been satiating. As it was, he was simply cocooned in man’s flesh, his savagery bound and restrained and guarded. His arms were so taut they could’ve snapped, his nerves a bundle of crackling chaotic current. Had he been a wolf at this particular moment, he’d have his talons buried at the wooden steps of his stairs, grating restlessly. Instead, he bit at his lips with his blunt teeth to restrain the guttural moan that threatened to escape from his  mouth and watched the blonde doctor cross the steps in front of him, towards the confines of 221 B, towards his premises, towards his _territory_.

 

There was a profound joy found in that, a colorful wave of triumph reverberating and cascading along the walls. He kept his eyes trained on John Watson and carefully held his breath as the distance were cut shorter and as the curious man finally stood waiting in front of the door, his mouth pursed into a thin line, his brows arched in a careful frown, his face a mask of hesitation and anticipation, and his breathing as controlled and as shallow as Sherlock’s.

 

Not desiring to break the magic of the silence that seemed strained and fragile as it was, Sherlock merely shot him a knowing look and a small, languid nod. _Yes._

 

The ex-army doctor scowled back at him, probably disapproving at the inappropriateness of opening someone else’s door when one was merely a guest, or in his case, a runaway omega from another country. There was the tiniest of pauses, the quarter of a second to which Sherlock felt was a drag, but the doctor finally reached a hand towards the knob and pushed the door open. The surge of glee came without preamble that Sherlock himself was almost startled by it. He supposed he had half expected the other wolf to bolt away anytime, there was always the tiniest chance—during their stay in the hospital, the cab ride, and here especially. The concern was not that Sherlock himself wouldn’t have caught him of course, but it was profoundly and undeniably satisfying that the other man should choose to accept the younger Holmes’ offer on his own. Coaxing the omega to consider his proposal had been trying, making him see light of the situation more so, but as Sherlock had earlier deduced, John Watson was a practical man, _and a creature of instinct_ , Sherlock silently filed in his mind. The wolf born of Scowall was propelled by his instinct, the decisions weighed on his animal side when logic simply did not have the capacity to assess difficult situations and consider the options.

 

As the omega finally crossed the threshold and has finally, _finally_ set his feet undeniably inside the alpha’s territory, Sherlock found himself pulled towards the other man, needing to be close, his legs propelled forward, gliding in dead silence. He shut the door behind him; the doctor’s back was now almost touching his chest when Sherlock has speedily closed the distance between them. John, in turn, bristled as he felt the alpha’s presence instantaneously looming in close proximity. There was a sinful thrill that fired inside Sherlock’s veins as he watched the omega tensed but determinedly held himself steady in front of an alpha. It was a delicious display of courage the Consulting Detective marveled at that he wanted to touch it, caress it with his paws. He watched as the blonde tresses on John’s nape arose, the goose bumps of his exposed flesh swelled and the mounds of his shoulders stirred. He could feel the sweet smell of the man’s fight or flight hormones linger on the air, reckoned he could taste it if he simply darted the tip of his tongue out of his lips.

 

Sherlock slowly placed the flat of his gloved hand on the doctor’s spine, his index finger nudging leisurely long a vertebra, encouraging the other man to move. In understanding, the omega’s back relaxed and without words the other man took bolder steps towards the center of the sitting room, effectively detaching his back from the press of the Consulting Detective’s hand.

 

“Well,” the omega stammered with forced casualness, clearing his throat with a cough drily. He then looked about at the sofa and the couple of sitting chairs near the fireplace and at the litter of cardboard boxes and piles of papers, drinking the sight of the place with such avid interest that Sherlock could almost hear the bolts and hinges turned as the doctor processed the details away, “this is nice,—could be nice place, indeed…”

 

“I think so too—”

 

“-Once we clean some of the things up,” John finished with resounding flourish, looking at the alpha inoffensively and inquiringly.

 

Sherlock frowned. He supposed his things could look like a mess but it was his organized mess. Everything was arranged by him methodically and while there was nothing wrong about it and whilst it may look like a disaster to the other man, Sherlock supposed he could afford a bit of a compromise.

 

“Well,” he wrinkled his nose in distaste even as he picked up some sheets and stored them on the mantel after planting a dagger at them, “I suppose I could straighten things up a little.”

 

“Oh, good then,” John answered sheepishly, almost self consciously before he decided to inspect the old, cushioned chair nearest to him, the one clothed in midnight blue.

 

“There’s a skull,” the omega belatedly observed.

 

“A friend of mine,” Sherlock explained by design, his hands preoccupied with clumsily rearranging some papers and folders to file them on top of a different cupboard this time, then lamely continued, “well, when I say friend…”

 

Sherlock heard the other man hum in quiet acknowledgment and decided that no further explanation was needed.

 

 He was on the act of pretending to perform some cleaning the omega seemed to insist upon when he caught at the periphery of his vision how the other man  carefully lowered himself on the chair. The younger Holmes thought it was yet another proof of his genius that he kept the admittedly ancient chair inside his flat instead of heeding Mycroft’s insistent demand to refurnish the whole apartment with newly purchased items. He could always trust his older brother to mess things up for him magnanimously even under the guise of good intention. It was a given. The proof was in front of him as he watched the ex-army doctor settle himself down, almost lovingly, and relaxed as his back touched the generous cushion of the chair. Sherlock heard the subtlest of sigh, the sort of exhale so tender it sounded like a breath of the holiest sort. If John Watson was a wolf at this moment, his ears would’ve pressed against the back of his skull lightly, and his mane, which would be of the golden sand’s color, would’ve ruffled floppily. His rich tail would’ve wagged, too, Sherlock supposed.

 

Sherlock’s breath was snatched out of his lungs for the briefest second as the picture of the man in front of him warmed his blood. It was, in the purest sense _, fitting_. Somehow, that the omega would occupy the olden chair Sherlock in his life never preferred for himself or used, set all the wrongs in the world to right. Whatever this sense of air sucking approval was, the Consulting Detective reckoned it was a wolf thing and not wanting to dwell on it at present, addressed another pressing matter that the omega wolf seemed to somehow ignore unintentionally.

 

“You should go have that overdue shower we spoke of,” the alpha drawled, opting to be as straightforward as was necessary. There wasn’t a roundabout way in this conversation. It wasn’t even as if he cared. “While your earthly scent led me to your location and while it served better than a GPS chip, I assure you, the smell could be appalling to prospective employers. You look hideous too, now that we’re at it. It’s useful for a disguise but you _do_ want to land a job after all.”

 

John gave him a suffering look, caught between being insulted and being embarrassed. He looked fleetingly affronted but he had schooled his expression just as quickly as the reality of his situation dawned in his clear blue eyes. His face wrinkled in confusion as the emotions battled inside his brain. Sense won. Sherlock saw as the omega considered his suggestion and saw the reasonableness of it. Then the other man’s eyes flickered and Sherlock saw anxiety crept over the doctor’s features. Whatever semblance of comfort and tranquility was instantaneously eradicated as the wolf winced and darted his eyes around the flat, assessing the place, looking for ports of entry and possible escape.  It made sense. It was one thing to have the presence of another wolf near you, aware of his presence and where he stood, yet completely different from having someone that could be a potential enemy out of your sight. A soldier’s stance, it wasn’t a difficult deduction to leap at.

 

Sherlock growled, his velvety voice sounding like rumpled silk, repulsed at the mere thought that he would mean harm towards the man. It was unthinkable. The wolf in him wanted to tackle the omega to the floor and commence a fight for submission. They would be spectacular, he reckoned, having their animalistic spar; an omega soldier vigilant to prove his worth and a genius alpha who craved to see it. Sherlock would claw and bite and break the other wolf’s skin with stunning accuracy, he’d finally taste blood and feel it pulsing with the beat of the omega’s heart, and all the while he’d prove that it _wasn’t_ an attack at all. He felt the pool of warmth buzzing at his stomach as he envisioned his fangs snuggly sheathed in the other wolf’s flesh. No, it wouldn’t be an attack at all.

 

It would be different.

 

The Consulting Detective dipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and brought out four slim metal darts which he promptly dropped on the coffee table. They hit the wood with a dull thud but it was enough to snatch the omega’s attention back, drawing those bright eyes back to him, and beckoning the other’s mind to stop straying.

 

“The tranq gun’s still with you. You could refill the ammos,” the younger Holmes explained crisply. “As you can see, I have a _laboratory_.” It wasn’t lost on him that he may have preened at the last sentence, his chest puffing out. The omega was a _doctor_. He would understand. Not every man in the city had his own laboratory inside his house.

 

John looked baffled at first, his sandy brow crumpling above his bright blue orbs. Then he looked down at the glinting darts spread on the coffee table and back at Sherlock. The alpha casually pointed on his right with his thumb and John, misleadingly looking suggestible, flicked his eyes towards the same route. The alpha observed how John’s eyes finally crinkled. Sherlock rather thought he had succeeded dissuading the trifling and unnecessary anxiety attack. Curiosity alighting on his face, John arose from his chair, (for surely it was his chair now), and proceeded towards the direction Sherlock gestured at.

 

The alpha watched as the other man disappeared from his view to presumably appraise the area. He then took his time to remove his long, heavy coat and placed it appropriately on the nearby stand. When he had turned around and came back towards the center of the sitting room, it was to see John emerging from the laboratory area with a breezy composure.

 

“It would be unsanitary,” he offhandedly said out of the blue, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips and his eyes crinkling merrily, “to reuse the darts, I mean. It would be unethical. And just wrong.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Ethical. Boring,” he waved away with a now gloveless hand as he settled himself on his chair, the one directly opposite of where John had previously sat upon. “Might I remind you that you fired them in the first place? Shooting at people could be unethical, too.”

 

“I’d remind you how it saved your ass,” John answered pointedly.

 

“You shot me,” Sherlock reminded distastefully. “And no, of course you didn’t save me. I had things perfectly under control.”

 

“I should think not,” the omega muttered as he, too, made his way back to his chair.

 

John looked at the darts contemplatively and reached for one. It wasn’t lost on Sherlock the fact that it was the very piece that was used on _him_. The omega had a good nose, it would seem. There was a tug somewhere at Sherlock’s chest. He deemed it appropriate to ignore what it could be or what it could mean that the doctor singled out the particular ammo.

 

“And you don’t have a laboratory,” John suddenly said, as if snapping from a daze, the dart snuggly fitted and wrapped with his fingers. His brows descended into a disapproving crumple before twitching to a curve that resembled mirth. “You have a _kitchen_.”

 

John smiled in the end, probably because of a private joke he had in his mind, and it was an easy smile, an eased bowing of lush lips, genuine in its birth that his eyes of sea crinkled in humor as its twin. And Sherlock found it beautiful.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock sniffed, slightly affronted at the backhanded insult on his workplace, “surely you recognize the chemistry sets and the experiments; Ergo, a laboratory.”

 

“Should I be concerned of my well being while in your presence?”

 

“Now you’re just being an idiot. And postponing your much awaited bath,” Sherlock pointed out.

 

The omega’s cheeks colored and his eyes slid sideways. “It may have escaped your notice,” he said haltingly, “but I’m a runaway and practically homeless without much possession, _like clothes_.”

 

Sherlock looked appalled, his pale eyes widening. A cheek hollowed as he attempted to reign in a retort before he settled with a mild, “A pair of extra clothes fitting your size’s already in the bathroom.” He said it so painstakingly slow, hinting how John was being stupid with a resounding clarity. He was a _Consulting Detective_.

 

“Oh. Thank—” John had cut himself off in the middle of his appreciation as his face was washed with unadulterated curiosity. “ _How_ prepared were you of my agreeing with your proposal and coming here?” There was a ringing alarm there in his voice, but there were also awe, surprise, wariness, and legitimate _marvel_. The omega’s voice was a pleasant drug Sherlock found enticing.

 

As his response, Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at him imploringly, maybe a bit condescendingly, too.

 

John mercifully settled with the alpha’s non verbal answer and with jaws of grave determination, hauled himself to his feet and proceeded towards the direction of the bathroom, presumably guided by his sense of smell.

 

“Pardon, my intrusion, then,”

 

“Don’t be absurd, John. This is where you live now.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. That much was obvious.

 

The omega turned back to look at him, his expression that of someone who has been caught unguardedly by something he could not believe. He searched for something on Sherlock’s face, one the alpha for the life of him could not once again identify. One of these days, he would ask the doctor what he was always looking for in Sherlock's face when the former seemed to be confronted with something he could not understand.

 

John swallowed. Sherlock’s eyes trained obediently on the sensual curve of the Adam’s apple, the way it bobbed and danced.

 

A cough.

 

“I, well…” John stuttered, his flirtatious tongue darting to wipe at the lips, “yeah.”

 

~*~*~

 

As the runaway omega took to his grooming, Sherlock spent the time with what he did best, with what he did almost every passing minute. He settled his back against the chair and revisited his Mind Palace, storing away vital information about his flat mate; Ah, yes, _his flat mate_ , and his living, breathing piece of mystery, a puzzle straining to be solved. He filed away details such as the other wolf’s breathing pattern, the multitude of expressions on his face, his annoying habit of licking his lips when nervous, his stance when he was confronted with potential threats, his breathing when he relaxes, the expansion of his chest and the coloring of his cheeks. They were important details anyway and Sherlock was never one to let anything go amiss unless he deemed it unnecessary.

 

He had been too preoccupied inside his Mind Palace that the time simply brushed by unnoticed. And then finally, John Watson emerged from the bathroom and trudged back in the sitting room, sat on his chair across the alpha, and Sherlock, upon snapping himself back to the real world, felt that animalistic hunger once again.

 

Freshly showered and shaved, John Watson simply took his breath away. Those remarkable eyes were still the same but without the grit on his hair and skin, and with those filthy clothes taken care of, he exuded another side the Consulting Detective still had not seen. It was as if a flimsy disguise was shed away and he was seeing the skin underneath for the first time. John Watson had a habit of wearing multiple layers of disguises and his true wolf scent was just one of them. His face, now cleanly shaven, revealed nice set of jaws, his expressive lips more noticeable and the curve of his soft cheeks more pronounced.  He wore a cream colored jumper underneath a white shirt, and his legs are covered by fitting jeans—the very ones Sherlock has instructed to one of his strays. He filed away a random thought to give an incentive for getting the things he ordered right. John Watson, the pragmatic man that he is, who had a voluptuous design towards tea and comfort, he was a man who would’ve picked up the same set of clothes.

 

“Well?” John’s voice cut through his musings. He had his head tilted to his side as he looked at Sherlock curiously.

 

“Well what?”

 

“Where’s my tea?” There was the faintest trace of smugness.

 

Sherlock scowled. He didn’t promise to make tea. He promised tea.

 

But the door opened and to his immense relief, Mrs. Hudson, the blessed human that she was, entered.

 

“Sherlock,” she greeted with a singsong voice.

 

Sherlock watched as the other man straightened up, his blue eyes trained warily at her as the human land lady came bustling in with a tray full of cups of tea and chips. Mrs. Hudson walked promptly towards them and placed the tray on the coffee table.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, this is John,” Sherlock introduced, deciding that he would have much preferred to get to the point than to have the woman’s lengthy cooing. “John, this is Mrs. Hudson, our landlady.”

 

John politely got to his feet and shook the lady’s hand.

 

“Doctor Watson,” she greeted jovially. “I was expecting you.”

 

The man’s eyes widened a fraction and he sneaked a pointed, inquiring glance at Sherlock. The alpha rolled his eyes. Trust Mrs. Hudson to gush out some particulars.

 

“There’s another bedroom upstairs,” she informed John, “would you need two bedrooms?”

 

Sherlock had the little pleasure of seeing the doctor squirmed defensively. Mrs. Hudson’s nonchalant comment surely has drawn out one innocent fact they have expertly side stepped from; that they were both unbonded alpha and omega shacking up together. It was merely a trivial data other people seemed to overly concern themselves with, of course. This was an omega who sneaked into the military and played human, he was bound not to be easily affected by alpha scents, and Sherlock was an alpha who had reined his base instincts proficiently, his sharp mind cutting through the senseless rutting dictated by the pheromones excreted by the opposite gender.

 

John gave him a look that said he had more questions to ask later and Sherlock pointedly ignored it.

 

“Your tea, John,” Sherlock called triumphantly, with a flourish, as he waved towards the tray.

 

Mrs. Hudson frowned at him. “I’m not your housekeeper, dear.”

 

“Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson,” John said politely.

 

The lady seemed to have been distracted from the talking he wanted to give Sherlock to convey approval to the doctor’s courtesy. “Just this once, John. As a welcome,”

 

The omega gave a nod and a small smile before sitting on his chair once more and reached out for a cup of tea. Sherlock watched keenly as the other man reveled at the smell of his _cuppa_ before taking a careful sip lovingly, his eyelids fluttering close.

 

Sherlock sniffed through his nose as well. Without the tang of filth and mud and the malodor of month’s worth of sweat and oil, John smelled different and refreshing. The alpha noted with a sense of carnal approval that the other wolf smelled of his soap and shampoo. There was an expansive comfort there. Underneath the artificial smell of chemical, though, lays the doctor’s dim human scent—one which was not cloaked by his signature wolf smell. And John Watson still smelled of _earth_ , a clean untainted earth after the wash of a rainforest rain.

 

“Sherlock, the _mess_ you’ve made.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice drifted from his laboratory.

 

Sherlock shot to his feet, loathing that his landlady may touch and compromise some of his experiments, but then Mrs. Hudson came back to the sitting room wrinkling at her nose. Sherlock relaxed.

 

“What of the three serial suicides, dear?” she asked out of the blue as she glided towards a nearby table stacked with newspaper clippings, “I thought they’d be right up your alley?”

 

Sherlock heard it, then, with his sharpened hearing; the screech of rubber tires on the pavement somewhere down his window. Trust Detective Inspector Lestrade to arrive with impeccable timing occasionally.

 

All the things in the world are proving to have been set to right. He was on fire.

 

“ _Four_ , Mrs. Hudson. There has been a fourth.”

 

As he waited for Lestrade to come barging inside his flat, he afforded a glance at the omega.

 

John Watson was quietly watching him above the rim of the cup he was holding close to his lips.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with me. This chapter is a bit slow but I promise things would speed up after the first Part is finished. Thank you. Once again, this is unbeta'd so I do apologize for mistakes and thank you for pointing some of the things out!


	7. The Man With Steady Paws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  John Watson should have guessed that the other wolves would come sniffing at his tail. Considering the enigmatic man that Sherlock Holmes proved to be in the small time they have known each other, he supposed it was inevitable that the wolves around the Consulting Detective would be just as queer.  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before everything else, just wanna cry, "To the ground, DOMA!!!"  
> ~
> 
> I sincerely hope that the gun thing worked. Still unbeta’d; hope I’m managing to avoid mistakes instead of committing more of them. Thank you very much for your patience ~_~

~*~*~

_In the end, it was his gun that made the decision for him_.

 

His wolf instinct had something to do with it, too, of course, that even when his mind all but screamed to bolt away from someone who discovered his name and someone who had association with people who could retrieve his military files _from_ Scowall, he had still taken a leap—a very huge risk. His wolf was with him in this particular decision, his instincts urging him on. But it was his gun that finally sealed the deal. The scent of the alpha had been all over the outer skin of his burlap back then in the hospital but when John opened the pack, he saw none of its original contents has gone missing—not the spare pills, the herbs, the few items he held dear and not even his Sig Sauer. Even if the alpha hadn’t opened the pack, being the brilliant man he proved to be, he surely would’ve figured out the bag’s content from its weight and being the curious man he stood to be, he surely wouldn’t have let pass the opportunity to rummage a runaway omega’s belongings.

 

A gun wasn’t something John could carry with him at all times. It had been pretty clever in the alpha’s part to offer John the freedom of reloading his darts with tranquilizer. This wasn’t an empty promise. John checked the bottles and beakers of chemicals on Sherlock’s dining room and was reassured that he had the necessary components to mix up a concoction that could subdue even the most developed wolf. The Consulting Detective was frighteningly thorough. That was why even with the gun safely tucked inside his burlap, he felt more comfortable knowing that he could have his tranq gun with him, strapped just beneath the waistband of his jeans, so easily accessible and convenient to use anytime he would need it. During his escape from the country, the tranquilizer gun had been an extension of his limbs. He need not think about the repercussions every time the need for its use arose. It was bound to cause fewer consequences that could get his situation uglier. A tranquilzer gun provided stealth when fired, with only the gentle, sharp whiz of the dart against the air to disturb the silence. A real gun would’ve attracted not only the wolves but also the humans within the vicinity. A tranquilizer gun would easily subdue a grown wolf whereas a bullet would be next to useless on a wolf unless you shoot the brain or the heart. He didn’t have a silver bullet with him and a wolf’s healing was remarkable. The regeneration process would’ve ensured the wolf to get back on his feet if none of the said vital organs were targeted. And even with a gun on his hand, John did not want to use it—both on humans and wolves alike—not when he was already on the run with wolves of Scowall on his tail. He did not want to have another country come at him. So no, even with the gun literally on his hand, he was reluctant to use it. Using it would just be dreadfully messy.

 

It wasn’t the Sig that caused him comfort; it was the Tranquilizer gun on his hand that always reassured him.  That was probably why John often forgets its presence, its potential use brushed away.

 

Until this night.

 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised about it—how things have come tumbling down chaotically. He was somehow always breaking odds ever since he has set foot within the wall of this city, ever since he has stumbled upon the Consulting Detective’s path. Not even past forty eight hours of his stay in this City and he was already riding a whirlwind with no hope of taking over the reins and no rooms to maneuver for directions. John would’ve snorted thinking about it except that he really, really needed to _focus_ on the target, on the sorry excuse of a man who dared lay his hand on the Consulting Detective who possessed such a magnificent mind.

 

Calming his breathing and dialing down the mental images that crashed in his mind, John Watson took the shot. A chest shot. He saw the man crumple before he quickly ducked down and hid away from the window. There was a good risk that Sherlock as a wolf would’ve recognized him even with the distance between the buildings.  He had done his part. Again. There was nothing more he can do but pray that the serial killer wasn’t a wolf but a human. Even then though, the bullet wound would’ve still sufficiently provided the Consulting Detective the leverage over the criminal, or the necessary distraction to kick his own commonsense into gear.

 

John went to a nearby comfort room he passed by earlier. He removed his jumper for it was bound to have contained some of the gun residue. There was no other way; he’d have to chuck it. He wrapped his Sig Sauer with it before throwing them back in his burlap. He had to get himself sorted out fast. If Lestrade and the others from Scotland Yard hadn’t been informed of Sherlock’s location, someone nearby the buildings would’ve recognized the sound for what it was and would’ve alerted the authorities. He scrubbed his hands with soap meticulously as his mind recalled the earlier scenario.

 

Whatever turmoil he felt when he came across the sight of Sherlock Holmes on the verge of swallowing what would be a poisonous pill, the intensity of it has surely come as a surprise. He was almost blinded with the rush of several possible reactions that all but threatened to gnaw at each other. His mind couldn’t decide which emotion to wear. There came the terror first. Seeing in his mind the alpha’s body lying motionless and dead in place of the last victim, that woman named Jennifer Wilson, that was a horrid thought. It was unthinkable. Then came the blind panic—it was fleeting and brief at best but it gripped him like cold claws at his chest, impaling him helplessly on where he stood. The dread that came with it washed over him like liquid fire and he felt utterly lost until he remembered the gun he had in his burlap—the gun he has forgotten he possessed, the very gun whose heavy weight suddenly felt comfortable on his shoulder. It was to say he was reeling with emotions and did not allow a second guess when he calmly dropped the bag on the floor and retrieved the weapon. It had been a long time since he had last touched it but firing a gun, like everything else, was like riding a bicycle. With the gun finally in his hands and with its muzzle pointed at the enemy, John finally felt the wave of _anger_. He was surprised to find himself growling both at the criminal and at the idiot, Sherlock Holmes. Stupid, stupid, idiot! He would sink his teeth on the idiot’s leg ruthlessly, just below the knee, and he’d dragged the tip of his fangs teasingly on the epidermis before properly sinking them on flesh, past the layer of fats and lines of veins into the muscle until he was bone deep. He would certainly not make it clean. It would be a grand mess just as shooting the man with a real gun would be. The skin would look more like an abrasion than a laceration, with the sharpness of his teeth drawing jagged lines and uneven depths against the flesh. The Consulting Detective needed a proper kick in his arse. John thought he would happily give it.

 

Then he shot the man and committed his first crime in the country where he hoped to build a new life, purchased his first kill as a human.  And John, he just felt the wash of warm relief.

 

He walked away from the toilet and felt the chill of the cold air hit his bare arms. Without the extra layer of clothing, he was bound to attract suspicion or unnecessary scrutiny. He had to get away, as far as possible but damn if he would. He’s feeling the strong urge to follow up on Sherlock and see if the alpha got out of the situation unscathed. What would you do, Watson?

 

John walked along the dark, empty corridor not hearing the echoes of his footsteps as he collected his thoughts and planned for the best course of action. The wolf was once again rebelling against the better judgment of his mind. The lingering sense of triumph over his remarkable marksmanship, the glory over his first kill in this land, the degree to which he was thinking how best to mask away the evidences, and his preoccupation wondering about the Consulting Detective’s condition must be reasons why he has been caught unaware, why he did not catch the whiff of another wolf nearby until it was too late.

 

He exited the building and was met by the sight of a tall man holding an umbrella like a cane. John felt his hackles rising and he felt the familiar itching on his skin even as he raked his nails in the air at his side. A threat. The man looked intimidating in his black, fine suit, pristine with his elegant stance. The shadows about him, he wore like a second skin, and played it to his advantage. John had to relent that it was effective—the man had the stance of someone who had confidence beyond measure, someone who had both power and money in his hands. It wasn’t so long ago, after all, when John himself met someone of similar standing and that encounter had had him running away from his own country. John berated himself. He had been so lost, so concerned about another wolf’s welfare that he has forgotten how he himself needed to be on guard every second of the day. Distraction, it was something he couldn’t afford. It was very neglectful of him. And now there’s a wolf who all but wore himself to intimidate in front of him. At this point, all John could think about was the gun in his burlap. _The gun’s inside my pack. Gun’s inside my pack._ He looked frantically about, searching for hidden threats, the wolf’s possible accomplices, and for something amiss he ought to recognize but he found nothing in the quiet of the shadows.

Then a soft breeze blew towards his direction and his blue eyes widened in recognition. _Wolf. Alpha. Unbonded. **Familiar**._ It was a testament to John’s awareness of Sherlock Holmes’ scent that he recognized the familial links in their smell, the similarity that left no doubt. John did not let his guard down though, and he could feel the wolf in him agreeing on his decision to warily measure up the alpha wolf who still could be an enemy. John was approached and cornered alone at the back of a building in the quiet of the night where no one could possibly know he was. He just shot a man. There definitely exists something in this arrangement that called for vigilance; nothing about this affair wasn’t suspicious at all. This wolf’s a different matter from the Consulting Detective who presented him a place to stay and gave him leeway to keep himself armed at all times if he wanted; but knowing how this wolf was a relation of Sherlock allowed John to consider entertaining a conversation. He’s been on the run for too long. It would be nice to know if he gained more enemies. He also couldn’t just bolt away. Not yet.

 

“Dr. John Watson,” the man drawled, tipping his head ever so slightly.

 

He supposed he would’ve been more surprised or cagey if it wasn’t the first time this happened. “It’s a bit rude not to introduce your name first, you, know,” John replied evenly, reining in the urge to bristle or growl at the mention of his name, “ _Mycroft._ ”  He glared at the other wolf. He had to concentrate with this one. Somehow, facing a Holmes told him to keep a clear head even when the pace of whatever event thrown at him hardly left him time to think.  It was actually rude. He wasn’t afforded the time to use his mind for logic in response to a situation that he found himself solely relying on his instincts. The onslaught of these unusual circumstances was keeping him on his toes without the privilege to rest.

 

He pushed aside the blind panic that threatened when the man called his name. He remembered the file Sherlock Holmes carried with him and allowed John to read back in the hospital. The Consulting detective mentioned the name _twice_ , in a clear voice, thickly dripping with disdain. John filed it in his mind unusual it may have sounded at first—how could he not when it was the man who apparently retrieved his military files in Scowall, and as mentioned by the younger Holmes, the Government, himself.

 

The man had brown eyes that bespoke of intelligence, just as piercing as Sherlock’s, but while the intensity in the younger Holmes’ were wild, this man’s orbs were _contained_ —carefully controlled and guarded. This was a man adept at handling plots and schemes. John thought he could smell the faint traces of inks and papers on him, money and _sweets_?

 

“Already told you of my name, has he?

 

“I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret.”

 

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

 

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

 

“Yes, the bravery of a soldier,” the other wolf smiled condescendingly which made John feel the chill somewhere in the pit of his stomach. “Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? If I was one of the people chasing after you, I’d say you’re already caught.”

 

John growled. The thing was, he had indeed been stupid—interloping with alpha affairs and all that when he should have been just concerned with his own arse. He’s once again with the attention of yet another alpha.

 

“You surely didn’t come out of your way to merely deliver an insult to a lowly foreign omega,” John ventured, gritting his teeth, fishing for more details when he was standing at a loss.

 

“Who are you?” the man asked, straightening his head, his voice thick with all the alpha inflection he could muster. “What are you running away from?”

 

“You have my file.” John quipped. A bead of sweat slid at the side of his face. He could feel the command of the alpha on him, heavy and imperious. It was, in a way, the same as feeling hypnotized; your body wants to obey someone else’s voice and your mind had to fight for control, had to cut through the haze. He wasn’t helpless against it but he could feel the tug, the insistence.

 

“I am fairly certain that what truly mattered were the ones excluded from it, the ones, only you could possibly know, and possibly your pursuers too.”

 

John kept his face passive, hoping he wasn’t giving anything away with just a mere twitch of his muscle. His association with Sherlock Holmes has taught him that even the minutest of gestures could be evidence when seen by a brilliant mind. It was his first time coming across the older Holmes but the other man was definitely a sharp one—at least that, John could discern—maybe even more adept with handling people. John’s instinct was all but telling him to keep baring his teeth.

 

“I could be wrong, but that’s none of your business.”

 

‘It could be,”

 

“It really couldn’t.”

 

“What do you want from Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Nothing,” he answered truthfully, almost taken aback by the sudden change of their topic. _I’m quite certain he’s the one who wanted something from me,_ his mind supplied. John thought about their conversation in the hospital. He didn’t say anything about it though. “I barely know him. I met him yesterday.”

 

The other wolf hummed in a deceptively non-threatening tune. John pictured a huge wolf prowling and wagging its tail around to lull the prey to a safe blanket of safety before it deemed it time to lunge for the kill. “And today you’ve moved in with him and are now solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of this week?”

 

John refused to think about his and Sherlock’s statuses. “If you are warning me against harming Sherlock, I think you’re going about it in the wrong way,” John retorted, “or did you want something else?”

 

“ _You_ ,” Mycroft uttered dramatically askance, “harm _Sherlock?_ I think we’re all past that considering the _occasion_ of this night…”

 

John’s heart skidded to a halt.

 

“No,” the other wolf continued, this time reverently, “I’m here to offer you employment. I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

 

“Why?” His own voice sounded weak on his own ears. _Occasion of this night_. Of course this alpha knew about John’s kill. It hasn’t even been an hour.

 

“Because you’re a runaway and without any resources at the moment,”

 

“In exchange for what?”

 

“Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’ll be uncomfortable with,” Mycroft explained, coaxing with his alpha voice, domineering, yet almost kind—except his face was otherwise and the sincerity was lost on his eyes. “You already are living with him. I take what I can get.”

 

“No.” It did not make sense _. Information on Sherlock?_

 

“You cannot blame me for worrying constantly about my _little brother_ ,” Mycroft elaborated, which still did not make sense. It made things more confusing where John is concerned.

 

“No.” _He wants to spy on his own brother._

 

“You’re very loyal very quickly,” the other wolf commented snidely. “Could it be that you’ve trusted Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

 

John opened his mouth for an answer—he hadn’t really thought about it in that way, if he already trusted Sherlock or not—but he was saved from the trouble of finding a reply when the other wolf cut him off, “ _Trust Issues_ , I would say. You left no notes—not to Harry, your sister, not to Stamford, the only friend you’ve been in contact with, not to anyone who knew you…”

 

John took a couple of audible inhales, his breathing sounding ragged to his own ears. “What do you want?”

 

“I believe you’ve already rejected it,” Mycroft answered, sounding amused. “And what I wanted to see, I think I’ve seen it already. But now it’s you who needs something from me.”

 

John heard the soft sounds of stilettos against the ground. From the shadows, somewhere around the older Holmes’s back, a woman came in view carrying a plain colored paper bag on her hand. _Beta. Unbonded_. _She smelled of metal, ink and paper_. She stopped when she was at arms length from John and stretched her arms to hand over the item. John took it and peered inside.

 

A jumper and a small vial of perfume.

 

John stared at the older Holmes with hard, inquiring eyes. He had a feeling he had somehow passed a trial and wouldn’t be handed over to the packs from the Scotland Yard just yet. But this alpha was a man of politics, someone who still does not make sense to John.

 

“I suppose that would save us from having a lengthy conversation,” the alpha wolf drawled while idly looking at his fingernails to feign boredom. “I’d express my gratitude but I’m sure my brother could afford expressing it himself.”

 

No. John did not plan to tell the Consulting Detective.

 

The omega felt as if he was entering a contract, a form of association with this alpha, as if accepting this escape was in a way an extension to something else. It was painted in subtext. He just couldn’t afford to think about it at the moment.

 

“Do not think for one second that I am not glad of your meddling,” Mycroft continued, “there was a glitch in our surveillance and we lost track of Sherlock in the most crucial moment.”

 

“You spy on your own brother.”

 

“I worry constantly.”  As was already said, was implied.

 

Mycroft Holmes gave a small nod and turned his back to convey dismissal.

 

“You asked who I was running from!” John said hastily. He was surprised at how desperate and almost frantic he sounded. To his surprise he found that he could not afford to let the alpha wolf to go at the moment. This did not make sense. It was bordering on illogical. _Idiot_ , John berated himself. He was asking for trouble when he really shouldn’t, when he really shouldn’t be vying for more attention.

 

The alpha half turned from where he stood and gave a sideway glance at John. His eyes softened in understanding—or that could be just an illusion of the shadows—John really couldn’t tell. “There are only two things in this world I am concerned about, John, and they are my brother and the country.”

 

John held the alpha’s gaze, blue orbs on brown ones. His own mind was reeling with cascading thoughts yet he could not find even a single coherent strand of what they are about.

 

_My brother and the country_. John clearly wasn’t a threat to the younger Holmes.

 

And then the edge of Mycroft’s lips curved. “It’s best not to think too hard about this, doctor,” he advised before finally walking away, back to the shadows, with the Beta woman in tow.

 

John watched the alpha’s retreating form still at a lost just as he was at the beginning, if not more.

 

The older Holmes’ small parting smile had been genuine, reaching those eyes that never wavered in their neutral gaze earlier.

 

~*~*~

 

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to have the gun. It’s illegal on both countries,” Sherlock stated as he threw the orange blanket on the ground and ushered John away.

 

“I’m pretty sure it saved your life and that you already knew about it. You’re guilty by association.” John did not plan to tell Sherlock about his role in the serial murder’s death but it seemed there really wasn’t a need to.

 

“I wasn’t in any danger,” Sherlock drawled with an edge on his voice as he scrunched up his nose. John ignored that.

 

“You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?” John had been pissed. He felt like he ought to be pissed, still…but Sherlock’s alive and he was sporting an awkward grin on his lips when he deduced John’s participation in the case and his pale eyes seemed bright and warm that John couldn’t find it in him to be pissed any longer.

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

“Coz you’re an idiot.”

 

It was a fascinating transformation. The alpha halted as if taken aback, then a full smile blossomed on his lips, and then Sherlock was sniggering haltingly. John couldn’t help but join.

 

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked without breaking stride.

 

“Starving,” John found himself answering in the same beat.

 

“End of Baker Street. There’s a good Chinese that stays open until two.” The alpha said promptly. “You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle…”

 

John tuned down the alpha’s velvety, baritone voice. This night has been ridiculous. John rather thought he was both in too deep and out of depth about all the things that happened, but walking beside this alpha of massive and brilliant mind, he couldn’t help but think it was worth a shot. It was absurd. It was superb. Smelling the alpha’s unique, intoxicating scent, feeling the warmth seep out of his skin, knowing he was alive and hearing the deep, smooth lull of his voice even when he was spouting ridiculous things about Chinese and food, John couldn’t help but feel he was on the right track.

 

“She’s coming,” John breathed as he glanced towards the night sky, hypnotized, his words cutting the other wolf in the middle of his speech.

 

John turned his eyes towards Sherlock when he didn’t hear a reply only to find the other wolf regarding him with intense silver eyes. They were like the moon.

 

Full Moon will come and go and John Watson would remain in his human skin. It was how the doctor’s chemicals worked after all. It wasn’t as simple as masking one’s scent into a different one.

 

~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Hola! With this we have finished the first Part and hopefully the plot will now roll smoothly on the Next one.  
> .  
> Hope this last chapter did not seem too fast or out of place. ^^


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